


For the Pure and Free

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [24]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Dreams Lost and Found, Espionage, Families of Choice, Freedom, Hope, Love, Multi, Original Character(s), Personal Growth, Political Intrigue, Rebellion, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 110,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: Missing Family! Ahsoka Tano, Bryne Covenant and their allies must battle a criminal conspiracy that stretches from Alderaan to Corellia to Ganthel to the former Separatist capital planet of Raxus. A conspiracy that affects galactic governments, Imperial moffs, and a young woman trying to find her way in the galaxy.A conspiracy that will lead them ultimately to a beautiful world known as Scarif.





	1. Prologue: History in the Making

_Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_  
Deena M’Faru  
Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest_  
Coronet City: University Press, 28 NR

Introduction - _An Agreed Upon Set of Fables_ by Her Grace, Jamelyn, 457th Elector of Corellia

When I was asked to write the introduction to this well-researched history of the Five Brothers in the early years of the rebellion, I was hesitant. So many of my family were intimately involved in these early years—most of them beginning at four or five years into the Empire’s reign—I was very conflicted.

For one, I would submit that the antecedent of the Alliance to Restore the Republic should more appropriately be called a Resistance—the _Maquisan_ as they say in old Ryl. Moreso even than what Leia Organa is trying to build in the unknown regions against what most of the New Republic sees as phantoms and her delusions. Something that the New Republic Senate should be backing wholeheartedly.

But I digress. This is a history. Shouldn’t let modern politics intrude into a history. There is no bearing from past history on the present.

The other reason for my hesitation is that the connection with the early insurgency is still raw and painful. As I said, many of my family—of blood, as well as choice—fought and shed that blood for this cause. They fought and lost before I was even old enough to realize what it meant to be the Elector-Presumptive of the Five Brothers.

It is raw because of those losses—of physical losses, of spiritual losses, and, to this day, emotional ones.

Some of my family did not live to see the Empire fall. Others lived long enough to know we were going to be free, but that we still had more fighting and dying to do.

I look at those markers in the Memorial Gardens, especially at the Cenotaph, and I see the price that our generation paid for those who allowed tyranny to flourish right under their noses. Tyrannies born in the past—even those born in the ashes of previous ones.

No. History has no bearing on the present. Not at all.

The name of my introduction, comes from one of my beloved uncle’s—the last true Covenant of Corellia—favorite phrases. A student of history in his formative years, he was present as an observer and as a participant in most of these events depicted. The phrase speaks to his belief that history is in the eye of the beholder. Unspoken in the phrase was the belief that the beholders of the future should be the ones who have the critical eye, but that they should listen to what those of the past are truly trying to tell them.

If you are wondering how I can speak to what my uncle believed in that pithy phrase, they are his exact words, told to two very young squadron leaders, on the day that we remembered our dead, and celebrated our living heroes. Directly from the mouth of one of those we tried to celebrate, but one who would not let us. In his mind, he had already left for Shili, to heal. To try and regain something he had lost.

I hope that you, our readers, are able to enjoy, as well as learn from this history. I am biased, but I think that the author has been as complete, and as balanced as she could, even from an outsider’s perspective during those times.

I hope that you will find these stories of Fulcrum, her Covenant, my mother-of-the-heart, a fixer, a Dragon, a pirate, a clone, a daughter, a troll, and many others as uplifting, as painful, and ultimately, as triumphant, as I do.

Thank you for reading, and may the Force be with you all.

 **Coronet City, Corellia**  
**30 NR (34 years after the battle of Yavin. 53 years after the fall of the old Republic)  
**

Jamelyn Blackthorn looks at the words that she had written over two years ago. She closes her eyes, as she sees the faces of those that she had mentioned in her writing. She runs her hand through her graying, dark-honey hair.

Her eyes fix on the medallion sitting on her table. A medallion in silver with a unique offset double triangle. A medallion last seen on a chain around the neck of the last true Covenant of Corellia. She smiles gently at the thought of him. She hears his warm drawl again in her ears. Telling her that she was ready to be the Elector and that he was proud of her. She remembers the tooth—the trophy of a long-ago Hunt with a beloved fellow-warrior—that had rested next to the medallion on the chain then.

She wipes away the tears that have spilled on her cheeks as there is a discreet knock and then the sound of the door opening. A woman of around her own age walks in at her voice. The woman, dressed in casual spacer’s clothing, grins, an expression as familiar as her own.

Jamelyn walks over and pulls her into her arms, hugging her tightly to her. The woman pulls away and gently wipes the remainder of Jamelyn’s tears away.

Jamelyn takes a moment to marvel at the two reminders of the woman’s unnatural, but still loving parentage—two differently hued eyes that gaze at her—one the amber of her father. The other the dark blue of her mother.

“You okay, Hopeless?” she asks Jamelyn.

The Elector rolls her eyes at the play on her nickname. “Yeah, Droplet. Just memories.”

Talle Tredecima’s eyes light on the open book-file and the medallion. “Yeah, sweetie. I know.”

Jamelyn shakes off the memories for both of them. “I just got word. Senator Trellis has resigned, as expected.”

Talle nods. “I’m sorry for his loss,” she murmurs. Her expression is unreadable, even to one who knows her as well as Jamelyn does.

“Yeah,” Jamelyn says. “But the galaxy might be the better for it.” She releases Talle and stands formally. “Talle Tredecima. I appoint you as the new Senator for the Corellian sector, to fill the unexpired term of Senator Trellis. You are to go immediately to Hosnian Prime and advance our interests.”

After a moment, Talle nods. “Okay, Elector. I’m assuming that the President will notify me officially, since he is the Executive.”

Jamelyn nods. “I know you don’t want to do this; that you’d rather jump in a T-85 and show that young pup Dameron how it’s done, but you’ll serve Leia’s cause much better being in the Senate to move things her way.”

Talle nods. “Okay, love. I’ll go. But you owe me a month with Cubreem afterwards.”

Jamelyn kisses her friend—no, her sister—of many years. “I know. Give him my love when you call him. Tell him I’m sorry.” She looks away. “For many things.”

Jamelyn watches the new Senator turn and exit the office. She picks up a datachip and inserts it into the console. The title page of the same book comes up. She pushes a few buttons and re-reads what she has written.

_Leia,_

_I hope that you find comfort and inspiration from the past as you face this. You are not alone._

She adds her sigil to the message, and sends it on its way, to an unknown location. Jamelyn looks up as another door opens. Her pain and memory rise even more. A young woman of medium height, with dark bronze skin, and warm, gold-flecked green eyes stands in front of her. The memories cascade around the Elector.

She picks up the medallion and walks over to the young woman.Time for a new Covenant. Just in time for a new darkness, or perhaps, an old one emboldened. Emboldened by the complacency that seems to repeat itself with astonishing regularity.

“Hey, Jo. Time for you to jump off of a cliff.” She motions her to a seat. “But first, I am going to tell you a story. Of how an ordinary young woman changed worlds. Just by trying to find her way.” She pauses, looking off into the distance. “You could say it’s a story of several people who jumped off of cliffs into the unknown.”


	2. Meglann: It sounded as if the Streets were running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Come sail with us among the stars! Spend several days or several weeks exploring some of the most beautiful planets in the galaxy in the lap of luxury. Join us on one of our reasonably priced luxury yachts. Fine food, good company, and a professional and discreet crew available for anything that you might want. Picture yourself on the beaches of Tamwith Bay, the pearl of the Outer Rim, or among the friendly population of Zeltros at an impromptu street festival. For the more adventurous among you, fly one of our rental flitters among the light-storms of the F’orn Cluster._
> 
> _Come get in the picture!_
> 
> Xizor Transport Systems Luxury Division  
> Information Brochure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cover Art of Meglann by SL Walker**
> 
>  

****Five years and three months since the Fall of the Republic** **

 Meglann Florlin, now known as Elann Gort to most people in the universe, steps out of the hatch of the luxury yacht into the dying light of a new world. Yet another new world that had welcomed her in the last month or two of her life. She smiles to herself as she surveys the scene of the sprawling, exotic marketplace. A warm sea breeze caresses her face with an exotic, spicy scent. She turns as she hears a gentle laugh. An elderly Pantoran in a Captain’s uniform stands in the hatch. “Hey, Cook. Try to refrain from getting anything that might cause the runs in our Dug guests again.”

“Well, it relieved us of their shitty disposition for a day or two,” she replies, punching his arm gently. She softens the gesture by brushing crumbs from what is supposed to be an elegant uniform. “I see you enjoyed the breakfast pastry this morning.”

“It wasn’t too bad. It woke me up, as it was supposed to. Along with the much-improved caf you make.” Meglann smiles and nods at the complement. “You sure you don’t want some of the crew to come along? Raxus can sometimes be a rough place, especially around the marketplace.”

She reaches up and kisses him on the cheek. “No thanks, Captain. I can handle it.”

He nods, a fond look flowing to his faded bronze eyes. “Never thought you couldn’t, dear. It’s why I have let you take the wheel a few times.”

“I appreciate it,” she says. “But I might want to find a new teacher. That docking was a bit rough.”

His eyes flash, until they lock with hers and he sees the extra bit of sparkle in the brown eyes. Just as she had intended.

“Smartass,” he says. “When you get back, we’ll get back into the simulator. You have a lot of potential, Elann,” he says. Meglann smiles, sketches a salute with her right hand—something she had learned in her one military science class, when trying to figure out her path in the University. She turns and walks down the ramp. Meglann feels his eyes on her back as she reaches the bottom.

She stops for a moment. Her hand reaches into her top and brings out one of the last vestiges of her former life. A silver and blue charm in the distinctive shape of an Alderaani Candlewick flower. She remembers a tiny dynamo of a Princess slipping it over her head carefully and solemnly, as if it was an honor greater than the symbol of the Keeper of Rhindon; the little girl’s smiling parents looking on. Meglann smiles. For her, it was just as great an honor. The smile takes on a wistful quality. The memory of a Corellian hunter’s grin, as well as a hooded Togruta’s smile, moves into her memory behind this one.

She shakes her head, placing the token back under her shirt. She tightens her grip on the datapad, glancing down over the list. She turns to the loadlifting droid waiting somewhat patiently at the bottom of the ramp. “Well, let’s go. Got a lot of buying to do before the passengers get back. Try and keep up this time, Dumpy,” she says with a sharp look.

The droid warbles something in return, something that sounds vaguely snide and sarcastic. She rolls her eyes. _Guess I am going to have to learn whatever version of binary that this thing speaks, if I really want to know if I am being insulted or not._ She laughs to herself, ignoring the looks from close passerby, as she thinks of other employees who had probably insulted her without her knowledge.

Meglann tries to tamp down the rising pain of thoughts of the cranky Nikto cook from her previous life. In her mind’s eye, she sees the devastating knife wound in Gort’s neck as she holds him, his life seeping out onto her shirt. She stops as she feels the reminder of intense heat on her skin, as her previous life burns down around her. The vision of Bryne Covenant’s pained face as he had dragged her from the burning kitchen, as his large Peacekeeper, Boge M’Faru, had pulled her now-namesake from the flames.

She looks up to see DMP-E-23 idling, waiting patiently on her. “Come on,” she says irritably. “We’re burning daylight.” She taps the pocket of her chef’s jacket, making sure that her new life is present. The forged scandocs with her new identity. An identity that had cost her a bit of coin in her small supply, but had been worth every centicred; it was worth it to ensure that she is able to start fresh. To prove that she could survive on her own on a new path.

Meglann is not sure who she is trying to prove this to.

She sets off in the direction of the larger food market. The chef’s jacket, with its Aurabesh symbol for Xizor Transport Systems, allows her to move relatively easily through the teeming crowds. Meglann idly wonders why this is, but dismisses the thought as she continues. She takes a deep breath, as she tries to catalogue the undefinable scent that washes over her. She remembers what she had read in the travelogue about Raxus Secundus; she marks this world as a definite ‘possible’ in her ongoing list that she might want to try and set up a new life on, when she tires of wandering.

The memory of a holo of three Republic Judicial officers intrudes into her thoughts, along with the smells and sounds of Tamwith Bay, the resort city, once known as the ‘Jewel of the Confederacy.’ Two males and one female— the latter who bore a slightly older version of her own face, right down to the sparkling brown eyes. A holo that had drawn nothing but silence or evasion from her foster father, the older brother of that young officer, when questioned. Especially when she asked about the scrawled location on the back of the flimsi.

The name of this same world on which she now stands. She shakes her head, sending the thoughts of that holo to the back of her mind. She cannot think about this quest, or even where she might want to start anew until she finishes the job at hand. A part of her mind still focuses on that time in the near future.

A time when she can finally forget her old life and focus on living the example that others had set for her. An example of helping others find the light in the darkness of the Empire. Meglann curses as she wipes the tears away, along with the likenesses of those examples. The powerful, beautiful Togruta huntress, laughing at something she had said over a plate of breakfast food, the first time they had formally met. Of those same powerful blue eyes coming undone with abandon in a medcenter shower; of the pain in those eyes as she recovered from another wound. Meglann also remembers the the joy and warmth when Ahsoka could rest with another who claimed her heart—the sarcastic Corellian with a warm, crooked grin and a light in his eyes when the two warriors were together. When they could relax with Meglann and others who were firmly in the light.

The same Corellian whose eyes were filled with pain at the death of Meglann’s dream, when he had pulled her away from the flames. She stops as she realizes that she has arrived at her objective. She shifts the small basket over her shoulder and exhales. As she starts to walk in, she hears a commotion behind her.

~=~=~=~=~=

Mal Adede, Ensign in the Imperial Navy, watches as the young woman disembarks from the yacht. His dark eyes flare with pain as he attempts to shift his injured leg. He pulls the flask from inside of his jacket, ignoring the dark look from the waiter in the small cafe. Adede downs the brandy and keeps his eyes fixed on his target.

As he returns the flask, allowing the burn to move down his gullet, he thinks about the strangeness of the last few days. The pain in his legs and ribs flash as the explosion bursts again through his consciousness. He sees himself making the split-second decision. The decision to push his uncle and erstwhile protector away from the blast of the overloading powerpacks and continue his life in thrall to the man. The man who holds his mother’s life in his hands. Or push Secor into the fire of the explosion. Ending the thrall, but with the distinct possibility that his mother’s existence would end.

He had chosen the known. Adede had pulled his uncle from the blast. Mal closes his eyes as he thinks of what might have been if the traitor Kolan had succeeded.The late ISB agent might have done him a favor—but might have cast him adrift in the unknown future of a bastard son of a nobody Mando engineer and a Naboo crimelord’s daughter. A future he could not navigate without protection.

Instead, he finds himself on Raxus, tracking another nobody—an Alderaani cook—halfway across the Rim, on the off chance that she might be the old man’s bastard mistake from the time of the Naboo crisis. He shakes his head and drops coins on the table. As he makes to lever himself up from the table, a shadow falls over his table.

Adede looks up, as his hand moves to the small blaster under his coat. His eyes widen as they move up the shadow’s body. A smaller shadow than he had thought. His eyes lock with the woman’s.

Her dark almond-shape eyes stare into his without expression. No light escapes the windows. His eyes track downward to her bare, muscled arms, both resting on a familiar belt. The belt of an Imperial officer, a blaster on one side and a large, oddly-shaped blade on the other. She is otherwise dressed in unremarkable civilian clothes.

“Hello dear,” she says. “We have a mutual acquaintance who might be interested in you.” The expressionless face animates a bit with a slight quirk of the lips. “Even though you don’t know her yet.”

She sits at his table, her hands not moving from the weapons at her waist. He sits, his eyes tracking in the direction that Florlin had walked.

“Don’t worry, dear. She won’t get far.” The woman holds out her hand. “My name is Cantos Lardai. Commander Cantos Lardai of the ISB. I bring you greetings from your Aunt. Let’s talk about true family loyalty.”

 **Six Months before the Naboo Crisis**  
**Republic Judicial Base Tamwith Bay, Raxus**

Commander Jano Secor looks out over the airfield as the remaining fighters of his squadron angle in for a landing. He watches two in particular of the flight of eight, arcing in perfect sync to set down. He grins at the added flair from both of them—matched in every maneuver, the leaders of the two divisions.

He feels his eyes grow darker as he sees the two pilots dismount from their fighters and walk towards each other. His anger grows as he sees their body language as they pull closer to one another. He sees the larger figure bump his hip into the smaller as she removes her helmet. His heart pangs as he sees her laughter as the helmet comes off, her bronze curls flowing from the confines.

Secor hardens his heart, as he thinks about what he must do. For the good of the squadron. For good order and discipline. He pushes the vision of those laughing eyes flashing with anger as she turns from his office, as she refuses his offer. An offer of security and advancement as his personal aide when he is promoted to his inevitable ship command and then hoists his flag.

Secor sighs and focuses his attention to the tall male walking next to her. An older pilot, Secor’s senior division leader. As he sees the officer touch the younger’s hand, he realizes that his suspicions are founded. His suspicion of betrayal, his anger growing almost tangible.

The squadron commander lifts the datapad to his eyes. The younger pilot’s request for a transfer to another squadron in the air wing. Back to the type of ship she had grown up in. The proper thing to do in order to circumvent a growing attraction between two officers. Or least make the fulfillment of the attraction possible.

Without hesitation, he pushes a tab marked ‘denied’. He brings up another form and touches his fingerprint to it. Another transfer, coupled with a negative fitness report for the senior division leader. A man who he had looked forward to promoting to his vacant executive officer slot. A formerly trusted subordinate. Secor turns back to the airfield control tower. He does not see the young woman stop, placing her hand on her abdomen, as her face turns a shade of puce. The tall officer places his hand on her shoulder, his chiseled features marked with concern. She smiles at him, placing her own hand over his. Secor turns back just in time to see the sparkling eyes lock on the other pilot in laughter.

Secor closes his eyes as he realizes that the brown eyes had never focused on him with that emotion. A bright light intrudes into his consciousness as he closes them. They snap open, widened at the bright glare of a different sun. A bright, almost eye-searing glare, playing over blue water and clear beaches. Secor shifts painfully in his hoverchair, as he realizes that he has dozed off looking over his new command. He curses. His exile.

He rubs his remaining unbandaged eye. He had found himself falling asleep more and more since he had exited the bacta treatments. Secor comes out of the chair, hobbling over to the transparisteel viewport of his office. He watches as his former flagship climbs into the blue skies.

He grits his teeth at his change in fortune—of the loss of his lucrative Core sector, after the debacle on Alderaan. The memory of his past failures are fresh in his mind as he thinks of his new command. An important project they had said—a project that needed his leadership and experience. He looks away from his stare into the waters.

The building of what amounted to a library on this distant world. A world known as Scarif. He picks up his datapad to review his nephew’s progress with a project of his own. A project to cement his legacy with a new generation.

~=~=~=~=~=

Meglann turns towards the noise. Her eyes widen as two large figures accost a skinny, much smaller male. “Stop!” he screams. “I’m not going back. You can’t make me...!”

Meglann looks around her. She sees the crowd turning away as one of the large figures, both dressed in red-trimmed black cloaks with hoods and masks take hold of the boy—she can see with a quick glance, that the victim is a young, undersized adult. The first black cloak punches the human in the face, dropping him. Neither of the hooded figures looks like any of the Raxiun law enforcement bodies she had seen on her visits here. She takes a deep breath. Come on, Meglann. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t get involved. As she closes her eyes, she sees a pair of bright blue eyes looking at her. A pair of warm green eyes stands behind the Ahsoka-figure in her mind’s eye.

Neither figure judges her. They simply look at her. She opens her eyes, letting the deep breath out in a hiss through her lips. They don’t have to. She knows what both would do.

She reaches onto the back of the loadlifter, into a small bag. Her hand closes on the handle of a familiar object. She pulls it out and moves forward. Without pause, Meglann swings the dented frying pan at the head of the largest of the two. A quick backswing and the smaller one takes a blow on his wrist, forcing him to drop the boy. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the fugitive scramble away. She lifts the pot up and smacks the first thug in the groin. She grins as she hears a high-pitched squeak.

Meglann grunts as she feels a fist crash into her left ear. She feels her other hand involuntarily release the frying pan. She falls to her knees, then remembers a tiny bit of a lesson from Ahsoka. Not really a lesson, but a move learned from watching her Brawler make short work of two Alderaani cops who had, in Dani Faygan’s words, ‘gotten handsy’.

Meglann clasps her hands together and uses the resulting leverage to smash her elbow into the attacker’s hard knee. Her own arm lights up with pain, but she feels the cloaked man fall to the ground. Meglann jumps to her own feet, swaying only a little bit. She spins.....

....And sees the other thug pointing a blaster at her. She feels a scream start in her throat as she sees a blue ring emit from the muzzle and travel almost lazily towards her. There is nothing but darkness.

The smaller cloaked figure manages to pull up to their feet. A woman’s voice comes from under the hood and mask. “Did you see where the original runner got to?”

“No,” comes a deeper voice from the larger figure. “I say we call it a day and take this one,” he says, kicking the interfering young woman’s shoulder.

“We can’t do that here...,” the female starts.

“Who says we are here?” comes the dry reply.

~=~=~=~=~=

Mal Adede’s hand moves towards his blaster as he sees the two cloaked thugs lift the object of his tracking and sling her over the larger’s shoulder. Both thugs start to limp away. A steel hand grasps his wrist as the blaster is halfway out of its concealment.

He turns to his new ‘friend,’ his eyes flashing. “What the hell are you doing?” he snarls.

“Think, youngster. Think about it. How the hell are we going to snatch her? Those are Ganthelian commerce-takers. They have the authority to take anyone who helps their target escape, in lieu of the target. We know where she will be. It will be easier to take her on Ganthel.”

Adede watches as the two run-takers disappear in the crowd, who have made no attempt to assist her as she had assisted the boy. He stares at the forlorn pot laying in the dirt. He turns to the slightly older woman. He stares at her. “Don’t ever touch me again,” he says evenly, his voice full of cold malice. “I don’t give a shit if you’re some hotshot commando or even if you outrank me. Don’t touch me.”

The woman, Lardai, grins. “Okay, Junior. But I have never had a problem with anyone in your weight class, before.”

For the first time since he had met her, a small smile flows over his features. “Maybe so, dear. But you haven’t met anyone like me before.” His eyes narrow. “Remind me again, why I’m still with you?”

“Because your aunt, my boss, and incidentally, my soon-to-be new wife, thinks that you might be hungry enough to join forces with your mother’s blood kin and get out from under your uncle. A man who’s treated you like a lackey since you have known him.”

After a moment, he nods. “Okay. But what if I feel like it may be more worth my while to stick with a sector Moff, rather than an ISB colonel who just got flopped from her shot at the big time?”

She reaches over and touches his cheek. “You’re cute. You know there is always option B,” Lardai says. She touches his lips with her thumb, then, to his surprise, kisses him quickly.

“Should I ask what option B is?” he asks. He feels a sharp touch at his groin. He looks down at the oddly shaped knife tapping him there. A knife that is a signature blade for certain Imperial naval commandos.

“That is where I gut you like a Rokarian bloodfish, sweetie,” she says. “Now let’s stop playing grabass and get to Ganthel. See what mess young Ms. Florlin has gotten into.”

As they move off to claim his ship, Mal Adede wonders again how the hell that she knew the young woman’s real name, as well as how the hell he has found himself the object of his so-called ‘family’ since they had abandoned him almost at birth. According to his uncle, at least. The man who he is seriously considering betraying.


	3. Said Death to Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The early partnership between Fulcrum and her particular band of Corellians was an uneven one in the beginning, starting about four and a half years after the fall of the Republic and the Jedi. Within only a few months, the simpatico between Fulcrum and the Tempest cell began to coalesce, especially with the Constitutional crisis on Corellia and the corruption allegations against Queen Breha’s rule and her government. All while a secret quest was going on, both for one who would play a small, but significant role in the coming rebellion, and for a large cache of ships that could make the difference for a future rebellion._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Excerpt from Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest, Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

Ahsoka Tano allows a purr-like noise to escape her lips at the sensations from lower down on her body. She opens her eyes at the hard pressure centered on one spot. She grins as she watches the Corellian press his thumbs into the ball of her left foot, which rests against his chest. She takes a moment from the enjoyment of the two thumbs pressing knots from her feet to concentrate on Covenant’s face. Her grin fades as she realizes that he cannot meet her eyes.

She feels her heart twist at the expression on his face. She shakes her head, letting her canine worry her lip as she thinks of what is causing the pain. Ahsoka curses to herself in an obscure Hutt trade language, a word picked up when she was a teenager, having just survived an execution threat from the King Slug himself.

She lifts her other small foot from where it rests against his thigh and touches it to his groin, moving it lightly over the fabric of his trousers. She giggles at his raised eyebrow as he moves his gaze to meet hers. To his credit, he manages to keep his respirations even.

“You know, you’re the one who said that she didn’t have time for a proper tune-up, when I made a very definite offer,” he says, the crooked grin flowing to his face. He gently, but deliberately lifts the offending appendage back to its previous position with his free hand, without missing a beat with his thumb on the occupied hand. She takes a deep breath as she feels the knots dissipating.

“Yeah,” she manages to reply. “But then I realized it would only take twenty seconds at your age.” She yelps at a particular deep pressure on a certain spot on her foot. She feels a different noise form in her throat as he kisses the same spot. Ahsoka feels his heartbeat as she moves her face against his chest, her center lek twitching against his now-free hands as he holds her close to him. Their breathing syncs as they exist.

She pulls her head up, looking him in the eye. “You’re still thinking about Meglann, aren’t you, Bait?” she asks.

He looks away, his uncertainty rising again.

“You can’t, Bryne,” she whispers. “You have to concentrate on the moment at hand. It’s your time.” She touches his lips with hers. When she can breathe again, she rests her forehead against his, just before kissing him on the end of his nose. The move that usually he initiates with her—a favorite conversation-starter. As his laughter fades, she moves that conversation to the practical. “Have you found any trace of her?”

He closes his eyes. “Not since we went to the destination on her ticket. She never made it to Naboo. She apparently jumped ship before it reached its destination. Phygus is trying to run any possibles from there, but we don’t know where to start. I think she may have learned some larceny from us. She probably changed her identity.”

She nods, smiling for a second. “Yeah, probably so.”

“So how long do you actually have, Runt?” he asks.

“Just maybe another hour or so. The ship that I came in on is on its last legs. We’ree waiting for one of your uncle’s ships to take us to Wild Space.”

“You think that you can find the Seppie dreadnoughts?”

She leans away from him and picks up the glass on the endtable behind the couch. She looks around the familiar lounge of the old _Consular_ ship, before taking a sip. She allows the burn to trace down the inside of her chest before replying. “The info I’ve gotten is location-based. It won’t decrypt until I get to specific coordinates. So I’ll have to see when I get there.”

“I guess that I don’t have to tell you to be careful, Ahsoka,” he cautions.

She grins tightly. “You know me, sport. ‘Careful’ is my middle name.”

“Really? I thought it was ‘jump off of a cliff and see if a breeze will catch me’,” he replies dryly.

“Yeah, well. That usually works. Just as well as it does for you, Mr. Defeat-a-Geonosian-by-being-a-living-hood-ornament.” The memories trigger another extended demonstration of artificial respiration by both. As always, her eyes remain locked on his as they kiss.

As they break away, Ahsoka takes a breath. “I sent Nola down to the surface of Bothawui Proper. I have a member of my network who she knows that I gave a heads-up to. He has his montrals to the ground, especially with transients and refugees. Might dig something up.”

He nods. “Thanks, Runt. I appreciate it. You sure she’ll be alright down there?”

She Smirks. “Yeah. She’s been there before.” She shakes her head at the memory of the last time she and the Naboo had been on the surface. She grins as she thinks of the explosions and snark that had resulted. “Just depends on whether she’s developed a taste for Togruta moonshine or not.”

To his credit, he enquires no further, merely raising that highly mobile eyebrow further. “Yeah. I have someone on Alderaan talking to Meglann’s father. Seeing if he has any inkling of where she might go.”

“So, you think that Flori might be able to find out anything?”

He grins. “Going with the big guns, first. The Queen herself.”

Ahsoka matches his grin at the thought of the Queen of Alderaan visiting the tiny, neat neighborhood that she had once visited briefly. Her eyes turn dark as she realizes that she had never met Meglann’s parents, that they had always entered and left through the outside entrance to her basement rooms.

Bryne looks down, a shy look crossing his face. “You sure you don’t have time for a shower? We could save time and water. I could wash your back. Or your front.”

For a moment, indecision and want move to the forefront of ‘Runt’s’ brain, competing with ‘Fulcrum’s’ responsibility. She makes her choice, reluctantly. “No. I can’t, _Baa’je_ ,” she whispers. She allows a Smirk that she doesn’t feel to aim at him. “Besides. You still have another foot to finish.”

He is about to reply when she hears a loud crash, somewhere in the direction of the ship’s entry port. The sound of the collision of large bodies, accompanied by male voices shouting and cursing cuts through her. She sees him perk up at the sound of one of those angry voices. She closes her eyes for a moment as she realizes that he recognizes the volume, as well as the words.

A voice from his past—a voice similar to thousands, but distinctive to him.

Ahsoka sighs and pulls his eyes towards her with an index finger on his jaw. “Forgot I had something else to tell you, Bait,” she says.

~=~=~=~=~=

The Imperial Advisor of Corellia looks at her schedule, her dark eyes growing thunderous at the next line. _Do I really want to see him today?_ She rises from the burlwood desk and walks over to the large window of the high domed structure on the outskirts of Coronet City, higher even than the Capitol. Her eyes calm as she looks out over the peaceful city, a perfect mix of the ancient and the modern. A perfect example, in her mind, of the new Imperial.

She catches sight of herself in the ballistic transparisteel. She reaches up and pulls the mass of strawberry-blonde waves back and ties it away from her face in a neat ponytail. The effect does nothing to harshen her warm, open features—attributes that had led many to underestimate her in her career in Imperial service.

The young woman smiles, as she thinks of those who have underestimated her. Those numbers include a certain former Legate-Internal of Corellia, who had tried to sideline her Imperial counterpart nearly three years ago. A woman who was now on the ashheap of Corellian politics. The advisor rests her head against the window. Of course, she had the unwitting, but calculating help of that particular reptile that she is trying to avoid meeting today, who the former Legate had antagonized with her blatant hunger for power and lack of respect for the Corellian art of the possible.

Something that had vexed her as much it did that Dragon. She turns away from the window and walks over to the sideboard, pouring herself a stiff glass of the standard Corellian meeting opener. In spite of her loyalty to the Empire, Delilah Sal considers herself a daughter of Corellia, her pride in this world of gamblers, explorers, and risk-takers as much a part of her makeup as the appreciation for the whisky in her hand.

A world that some would say had rejected her. Delilah Sal pushes the painful memories of her childhood down, as she often does. Of growing up as an afterthought in the faded glory of a once-proud family. A reminder of the hopes of glory, gone in a drunken airspeeder crash, just after an assignation with the vindictive wife of the heir to the Electoral Signet—the father of the current Covenant of Corellia. A reminder to her cousin Thracken and his mother, who had taken her in after her birth, begrudgingly. A reminder of the need for discretion in their own drive for power. Delilah clinches her teeth as she pushes her childhood—a childhood in the shadow of that younger cousin—one who would never measure up to her skills and drive, content to live on his family’s past.

She thinks instead of her own path. _Still hard to get used to_ , she thinks. _From failed CorSec officer to the pinnacle of the Imperial-Corellian security apparatus_. Not bad for the bastard daughter of a now-despised woman and a family living imagined glories.

She turns and looks up as her new Chief-of-Staff walks in. The Advisor’s smile softens from its predatory bent as she sees the infant strapped to the woman’s chest. Countess Arrianya Tagge-Bel Iblis acknowledges her superior’s smile. “Come here, dear,” Delilah says, holding out her arms. Without a word, the younger woman unsnaps the carrier and places the infant in the Diktat’s arms. “There’s my little Dragon,” the Imperial says. Her eyes move up to Arrianya’s face. “Pity I have to meet with the older version.”

“About that, Del,” the Countess says. “He’s on his way here. Early, of course.”

“Of course he is,” Sal replies. “He wouldn’t be Draq’ Bel Iblis if he wasn’t.”

“You know he’s going to discuss the constitutional issues,” Arrianya says.

Delilah nods. She walks over to the sideboard and pours a glass of the pure water from the pitcher that rests next to the Whyren’s single barrel. She grins as her Chief of Staff looks longingly at the whisky, then at the infant that her boss had shifted deftly to one arm as she poured.

Lady Tagge takes the glass and sips. “Only a little bit longer, then I can enjoy the true nectar. If I can keep Garm from climbing on me for a while.”

Sal touches her cheek. “Just think of it as a breeding program for future loyal subjects of the Emperor,” she says sardonically.

Arrianya rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Just so I keep getting promoted, dear,” she replies. She grows serious. “Do you think that Draq’ is going to push the vote of no-confidence in the Diktat in the Great Council?”

Delilah nods. “I think it’s only a matter of time that he shows his hand. The Diktat is elected, and can only be removed in this fashion during his term.” She doesn’t allow herself to reflect on her own thoughts of pushing Dupas Thomree out of the position.

“What will the Emperor say to this? Thomree’s an ally of his. It is why Corellia’s been allowed to flourish under the Empire. As long as we keep paying taxes and churning out stardestroyers,” the Countess finishes darkly.

“I think that the Emperor may be fine with anything that maintains order, whether it involves his ally or not,” the Advisor replies. She looks directly at her CofS. She hands the infant namesake to his mother, with a kiss for both of them. “You know, two can play games. Send a message to the Procurator. Tell him that the Advisor is not disposed to see him. Or better yet. Let him get here and cool his heels in our lobby.”

Arrianya, Lady Tagge, looks at Delilah with a curious expression on her face. She snaps little Draq’ in his carrier and turns to the door without a word.

Delilah downs her whisky as she gazes at the closed door. She thinks of her late mother’s machinations against the Bel Iblis-Blackthorn family. Machinations that had ended in a blaster bolt to her chest and disgrace for her memory and her remaining son.

Delilah Sal would learn from her mother’s mistakes. It would be easier with the weight of the Empire behind her.

~=~=~=~=~=

Covenant follows Ahsoka to the entry port as the voices rise. He slides in behind her, his eyes angry. He stops.

Boge M’Faru, former Peacekeeper and run-blocker extraordinaire for the University of Aldera, struggles to hold another large figure in a headlock, as the figure punches him repeatedly in the side. M’Faru jumps around as a small figure kicks him repeatedly in the knee and shin.

Murta Locke leans casually against a bulkhead, his arms crossed. For an instant Covenant smiles at the laughter bubbling up through the Parmarthen’s thick beard and mustache—a rare sound, after watching a small diner burn and its cook bleed his life out in a young woman’s arms. A fire and death, as well as a subsequent flight that Locke blamed himself for. Almost as much as Covenant does himself.

Covenant pushes past Ahsoka. “What in the name of a Twi’lek’s third nut is going on here?” he bellows. He hears a musical giggle from Ahsoka.

The struggle abates, but doesn’t fully stop. Covenant stares from Boge, to the still-pounding large intruder, to the now-calm smaller one, to Locke.

“Well?” Covenant repeats again.

“Yon wee man, and his little hellion were sneaking onboard,” Locke finally says, in his almost incomprehensible accent.

Covenant sees M’Faru release the intruder. As he stands, he feels Ahsoka’s hand on his shoulder. His breath blows out and his eyes widen as a ghost stares at him.

A man closer than any brother looks at him, an unfathomable look in his dark-amber eyes. Covenant notes the neatly trimmed beard and slightly longer hair, touched with gray at the temples and sides.

All of the others fall away from Covenant’s vision. He realizes that he has not taken another breath in as he stares at another of his dead, now alive. He feels Ahsoka’s arms go tightly around him. He turns to her uncertain face. “Forgive me,” she whispers.

Another step and he and a man once known by a number, but now mostly by a name given to him by Covenant are tight in each other’s arms.

 _“Ner vod,”_ he hears in his ear. _My brother._

After a moment, they release each other. “Don’t blame Mouse,” Drop says. “I made her swear—after she knew you were alive. We only recently reconnected. She threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t tell you. She said she couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Why didn’t you want me to find you? To know?” Bryne asks.

Drop looks away. “I was on that RMSU. I was part of Gregor’s little network. I saw what you lost. I was too late. I couldn’t bear seeing you hurting after you lost that. After what I lost in Order 66.” He returns his gaze to Bryne’s. “Plus, I didn’t want you to feel that you had to drop everything and help me in looking for her.

“A shitty reason, I know,” he finishes. The ‘her’s’ name is unspoken.

Covenant is conscious of Ahsoka starting to shoo the others away. Drop places his hand on her shoulder, shaking his head as she goes to follow the others. “No, Mouse. You deserve to hear all of this.”

Ahsoka nods. “Let’s go to the lounge. I think we need to be seated for this.”

As they troop to the lounge, Bryne becomes aware of the small figure now attached to Drop’s hand. His breath catches as he realizes the import of the little girl. He remembers standing on a landing platform, the last time he had seen the large trooper. He recalls Drop’s halting explanation of the discovery of an experiment. A horrible experiment in which he and his Jedi, Elle Jaquindo had discovered that parts of themselves had been stolen. A horrible experiment that had resulted in love and apparently a beautiful little girl.

As they move to the couch, the girl, about ten years old by Bryne’s inexpert reckoning, walks up to him, eying him curiously. He can see both of her parents in her intelligent gaze. He starts as he realizes one eye is honey-amber and the other is a purest royal blue. The same distinctive blue velvet as her mother’s.

“Are you my _buir’e vod?”_ she asks, her Mando’a flawless. _My father’s brother._

Bryne is just able to nod.

Drop pulls the girl into his lap. “Meet the brains of the operation, General. This is Talle.”

The man once known as Taliesin Croft is unable to speak at the revelation of the girl’s name.

Talle climbs down and walks over to her namesake, as he kneels down. Without pause, she holds her arms out and allows him to pull her to him. “I’m Bryne, Talle,” he says, sounding the last letter as it was intended with the same Chalactan inflection of her mother’s name. “I don’t go by Tal anymore.”

She nods against his shoulder. “I know. My dad’s name is now Tarre. Tarre Tredecima.”

Bryne looks up at Drop. “The High Corellian word for ‘thirteen’? Really? You mean that some of my Corellian culture lessons actually took?”

“What did you expect, bud?” Drop says. “With you blathering about it day in and day out, I was bound to pick up some.” He smirks. “Oh, by the way. We’re apparently cousins. Shysa, in a fit of sentimentality, adopted me. Of course, he now has a biter, so it may be moot.” Bryne see Ahsoka’s eyes widen at the reveal of the adoption, then soften. He knows that she had been present at the birth of this particular ‘biter’—a biter who bore her name, along with the grifter’s who had assisted in his birth. A birth marked with laser fire and hard maneuvers, as befitted a true child of Mandalore—a _Mando’ad_.

“That old bastard doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body. He probably needed a dependent for his taxes,” Bryne says, laughing. He releases his namesake. She immediately runs over and leaps into Ahsoka’s arms, who pulls the girl tightly to her. Bryne feels his eyes prickle as Ahsoka looks at him over the girl’s shoulders.

“So what about Elle, Drop?” he asks, dreading the answer. Ahsoka makes to take Talle into the next room but Drop shakes his head.

“I don’t know. I lost her when I got Talle away from the Temple. I didn’t know if she got away or not.” He looks at Ahsoka. She nods briefly. “Ahsoka recovered memories, after an encounter with the asshole who had helped us with Talle, a disgraced Jedi healer named Showim, that told me that Elle was alive on Chalacta up until four years ago.” He looks away, his eyes tearing. “We apparently have a younger daughter, named Faith.” He grins. “Evidently, I had more than blanks in my deece,” he says ruefully.

Covenant nods. He is unable to meet Ahsoka’s level, searching gaze. He sees Drop’s grin fade.  _He was on the RMSU. He knows what I lost._

The hatch opens. Boge stands in the door. He glares at Drop for a moment, then softens as he looks at Talle. He crosses his eyes at her, causing a giggle. He looks at Ahsoka. “Your transport’s signaling for docking, Fulcrum. The Captain is a bit impatient to get underway.”

Ahsoka’s eyes narrow. “Tell them I’ll be there when I get there,” she says.

Boge smirks and nods. He stops at Drop’s calculating gaze. “Maybe a rematch, sometime, groundpounder? Maybe you’ll leave your ankle-biter behind?”

Drop smiles. “I look forward to it, deckape,” he says, almost pleasantly.

Boge looks at Ahsoka and Bryne. “So what are we supposed to do with that piece of poodoo that’s attached to our lower airlock?” he asks.

Ahsoka rolls her eyes and stills the thunderous look from the actual pilot of the piece of poodoo with a grin and a wink. Bryne matches her grin as he realizes that the ‘brains of the operation’ is the pilot.

“I have a contact below who can find storage for it. It’s actually a sweet little ship for one or two people.” She sticks her tongue out at Talle. “Or one and a half.” Fortunately, Talle does not choose that moment to demonstrate her knowledge of Mando obscene gestures.

“You mean you shared a ‘fresher with Drop?” Covenant asks incredulously.

“Yeah,” Ahsoka says. “He uses less beauty products than you.”

Drop rises as Boge leaves. He turns to Covenant. “Not that I even now have a desire to take warm showers with you until the morning, but hopefully we can catch up sometimes.” He glances at Ahsoka. “That is, if you can get a rest from ah, important _strategic_ conferences, at some point.”

“You worry about your own conferences, sport,” Ahsoka says.

Bryne reaches down and kisses Talle on the top of her head. She gives a bright smile to him in return.

When they are alone, he pulls Ahsoka into his arms. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey, yourself,” she replies. She reaches up and kisses him for what feels like several days.

“So what’s the plan, Jame?” she asks, her lips against his cheek.

“Well, everybody seems to be poking around. I have to figure out how to put all of this together.”

He looks down. She pulls her fingers through his hair, then touches his lips with hers again.

When their lips part, he says, “I’ll see you when I see you, Runt.”

She nods. “Tell Meglann that I miss her. Tell her I’d like to talk before she does something drastic.”

“I will, _cyare_ ,” he says. “Be careful. If it ain’t worth it, blow those damned clanker ships to hell.”

She nods. “When this is over, I want to go lie on a beach on Zeltros with you.”

He snickers. “You just want to look up some of Dani’s in-laws,” he says.

“Maybe,” she says with a Smirk of her own. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t be doing needlepoint while I did. Dani’s mother did say she needed to give you a test ride. To see if you were worthy.”

She laughs at his flush. They both grow serious.

“Maybe I can show you some beaches on Corellia. Near the Seat of the Covenant at Southshield,” he says shyly.

They are both silent except for whispered breaths and words as their lips play over each other.

~=~=~=~=~=

 **Scandal on Alderaan**  
**Dateline: Aldera**  
**In the Year of our Emperor 5**

The Minister of Public Information for Her Majesty, Queen Breha has released the following statement regarding the astonishing revelations regarding Nola Vorserrie, a former high Crown official.

“Ms Vorserrie is no longer employed by the Government of Alderaan. She is seeking opportunities in the private sector, in order to spend more time with her family. We appreciate her years of service to the Royal Family.”

When asked for any comment on the recent allegations that Ms. Vorserrie, the former Hand of the Queen and Senior Representative for Alderaan in the Imperial Senate, had embezzled approximately 2 million Imperial Credits from the Treasury, as well as being seen in the company of known criminals, the Minister refused to comment on an ongoing inquiry.

Vorserrie, a native of Naboo, had been employed by the Crown for approximately four years, the last year and a half as the Hand of the Queen.

A spokesperson for Sen M’Faru, newly appointed Peacekeeper-General, stated that Peace and Planetary Security would not comment on the allegations.

Ms. Vorserrie has been linked romantically in several Corellian publications with the former interim Peacekeeper-General, Bryne Covenant. General Covenant resigned after only a few weeks in the position, a few weeks marked by turmoil, but a marked reduction of organized crime in Aldera. Questions have been raised in the Council of Graces as to the appropriateness of Covenant’s selection as Peacekeeper-General after these published reports.

A spokesperson for the Imperial Advisor, Raisa Horan, declined to comment. ISB also declined to comment on questions of Ms. Vorserrie’s and Mr. Covenant’s immigration status.

Ms. Vorserrie and Mr. Covenant were unavailable for comment.

_HNN Reporter Jessta Verlaine contributed to this report._

~=~=~=~=~=

Breha Organa’s eyes track away from the datapad’s accusing lines of script. With a sharp exhale, she pushes it away.. She looks across the breakfast table at her husband, who is seated patiently waiting for her to finish the article. The Queen breathes in again. “So where did the two million come from, love?” she asks. “I don’t remember a mention of this when we finalized the plan.”

Bail takes a sip of his tea. “I don’t know. This isn’t anything that I did. It would have probably made the plan even more believable, but you know me. I am not going to risk that amount of money for show.” He grins wryly. “I am not, after all, a Corellian.” His index finger begins to tap rhythmically on the saucer; the rattling sound a sharp counterpoint to the peaceful morning.

Breha nods as she considers this. “So, does this mean that our scheme is working? That we are exposing whoever it is that is pulling the strings on this witch-hunt against our rule? Or is the gigolo two steps ahead of us, and already knows we have offered what he wants—Nola’s embarrassment and our loss of power and possibly even the throne for corruption and incompetence?”

Bail laughs softly at her euphemism for the figure who has been at the center of the questions of Houses Organa and Antilles’s rule of Alderaan. Breha shakes her head. _Not just questions. Maybe even a full-on power play_. A euphemism for His Grace, Councilor of State Dorith Panteer. The head of the one Elder Family that had consistently struggled with House Organa and House Antilles over the centuries for the Candlewick Throne. Struggled might be too mild of a descriptor. In the near-distant past, dynastic struggles on Alderaan had included large amounts of blood spilled. Usually on the blade of the Rhindon Sword—now only a symbol of the challenges an heir to the throne might face on the Day of Demand.

Breha closes her eyes as she thinks of that particular Panteer’s inability to take ‘no’ for an answer. An inability that right now has forced her Hand of the Queen from the world that had taken her in.

She brings her attention back to her beloved. “No,” he says. “We’ve dealt with his shit-stirring, before. It usually displays a distinct lack of imagination. His questions this time seem to have a knowledge of some of our.....” He trails off as he tries to describe the activities that consume his every waking moment. Activities that could bring destruction on his family and his world, if they had ever been brought to light.

“Do you think that we are reaching? That the Imperials are behind this whole thing?” Breha asks. She reaches across and takes his hand in both of hers, stopping the fidgeting with the teacup. She pulls the large hand to her lips, allowing her lips to linger on his knuckles.

“I don’t know, Bre,” he answers. “I know that Panteer has more base motivations than the dynastic issues from the past, especially when it comes to targeting Nola. But it feels like there’s something underlying this. Even Draq’, who knew nothing of Panteer’s past with Nola, thought there was something there when he let us know of the chatter that his sources had dug up.”

She is silent for a moment as she takes a final bite of her breakfast, before pushing the plate away. “Maybe we made a mistake in allowing Draq’ and his slicer to put all that poodoo out there that she and Covenant were linked romantically.” Her expression turns dark. “Along with half of the galaxy’s eligible singles that he is supposedly plowing through.”

He smiles. “Maybe. But it also might have given Panteer a motivation that made him move faster. It might make him just that little bit more careless.”

“So, of course this whole thing about the credits is designed to make us think about the worst alternative. That our trust in Nola is misplaced,” Breha observes. “At least to outsiders.”

“I know, love,” he says. “But we have to remain steadfast. She’s taking the biggest risk in this whole thing.” Bail looks away, eyes focusing on a small songbird outside the window in the bright morning air. “We’re already getting rumblings about the Council of Graces issuing a subpoena to her. One with the force of a legal warrant. I may go ahead and have M’Faru issue a pre-emptive warrant.” He returns his fond gaze to her. “So what about the other matter?”

Her face grows even more grim. Bail reaches across and smoothes the lines from her forehead. “Flori’s going to see Meglann’s father today. Draq’ has also let us know that Baldrick has been getting hits in our interest in finding her, since she diverted from Naboo.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Any idea who?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’ll know more later today.”

Both fall silent as they think of two young women. Vastly different, but both consuming the thoughts of royalty, as well as their paladins.


	4. Meglann: And then, the Streets stood still -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ganthel is known for its wide and beautiful savannas; its teeming wildife and the tight-knit closeness of its extended families—the Prydes. Families that include humans of all ethnicities, nonhumans who have come and enjoyed the peaceful, bucolic beauty. But with the onset of industrialization, a darker turn has overtaken the world—a sense of being left behind, of being on the outside—has left many Prydes in dire straits as the world attempts to adjust to the new, without losing the old and its traditions. A turn that has become even more pronounced in the waning days of the Old Republic and the coming of the Empire. A weakened—some would say puppet—ruler, the Conyl, the hereditary acclaimed chieftain of the Prydes, has only served to increase the power of the conservative and industrial Prydes. Only the Conyl’s daughter and heir, representative to the Imperial Senate, serves as a voice against a more rapid Imperialization._
> 
> _Analysis of Opportunities on Core Words_. A confidential report prepared for His Highness, Bail Organa, Senator and Viceroy of Alderaan

**Fourteen Years before the Fall of the Republic**

Lieutenant Elann Florlin feels her emotions cascade as she stands watching the flyover of fighters climb high into the sky over her new home—Republic Judicial Base Tamwith Bay. Her eyes track downward, following them, as they arc over the beautiful bay.

“Never gets old, does it?” says a deep voice behind and to her left. She turns to the sound, trying to place the accent. Her eyes widen as she sees that the tall officer is clad in a fight suit, his head bare. She spies the insignia of a lieutenant commander on his chest over Aurabesh script. _Dao_ , it reads. Her eyes move up to his face. A pair of kind dark eyes over a square jaw, capped with a longer-than-regulation mop of brown hair. The eyes are locked on her own. A wide grin flows over the officer’s face, intensifying the kind eyes and softening the square jaw.

“Hello,” he says, “you must be Florlin.”

She brings her hand up in salute, the realizes again that he is not wearing a hat to return it.

He shakes his head slightly, then holds out his hand. “I’m Dao. You can call me Hammer. I am one of your fellow division leaders.”

Elann takes the hand. She notes the warmth and strength, but dismisses it for now. “Hello, Commander,” she says, eschewing the call sign. “They call me Megaton.”

His grin transforms into a smirk—an expression that doesn’t diminish the warmth. “Yeah. I didn’t believe it when I heard that they let a fertilizer truck driver in the Lightnings,” he says. “We must be approaching the bottom of the barrel.”

Her eyes narrow. This time, she lets her eyes play over him. “Really? Thought they got that when they snagged you,” she retorts. “They needed a bomber pilot to show you fighter pukes how it is done and give some adult supervision.”

She watches as the grin grows wider. “Maybe so, Lieutenant. But you might learn a few things as well.”

“Yes, she might learn that I like the officers of my squadron to be busy all of the time and be in proper uniform when they away from the flight line,” a stern voice says from behind them.

Elann blanches as she turns. Her hand raises to her brow as she braces at attention. An older officer stands in front of them, his service uniform knife sharp, his hat placed squarely on his head. His gray eyes, active in his tanned face, appraises them both. There is a hint of amusement in them—just a hint as they fall on Hammer. The amusement fades to something different in his eyes as they fall on Elann. Something she had never felt since she had joined the Judicials.

The look disappears before she can catalog it further, replaced by a blank expression.

“Welcome, Lieutenant Florlin, to the 95th Pursuit Squadron. I’m Commander Jano Secor, squadron commander. He looks at the other officer, then takes both of them in. “One thing that I expect from my division leaders is to set an example.” The gunsteel gaze locks on Dao. “Especially those who want to be my permanent XO.”

Elann notes that Dao doesn’t break Secor’s steady gaze. Finally, the CO turns to Elann. “Drop your dunnage off at your quarters, Mr. Florlin,” he says. “Then report to my office.” He spins on his heels and walks away.

Elann watches him walk away, then turns her gaze back to Dao. She notices for an instant that his eyes are no longer kind or warm. At least until they meet hers.

“Don’t mind him,” he says. “He is alright except for the poker shoved up his afterburners.”

Her eyes widen. “Some of the other division leaders will be at the O-Club later. Come by and I’ll introduce you; after your meeting with the Dear Leader,” Dao says.

“Dear Leader?” she asks.

“Yeah. His call sign is Chancellor,” he replies. “Rumor has it that he broke the rules and gave it to himself. Everybody just went with it.” He grins. “Everybody else has a sense of irony. He had his removed at birth, I think. Along with his piloting skills.” Dao softens at her expression. “It’s okay, Megaton. This is a good crew. The pilots and groundcrew make a squadron. Not the CO.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Elann, now clad in a pair of shorts and an exercise shirt, sits down at the desk in her new quarters. She glances over at her service uniform, now hanging in the open closet. Her new roommate has not shown up yet.

Elann thinks back to her meeting with the squadron commander, Secor. She tried to look beyond what Dao had said; to keep an open mind. She sighs. The meeting with the CO had not made it easier. He had been militarily correct during the meeting, which had lasted only a half-hour. She had answered his polite questions, but had not volunteered anything. After she had left his office, she had walked back to her quarters. She tried to analyze her interactions, but could not place what was causing her unease. _Come on, Megaton,_ she thinks. _You’re being paranoid._

A knock at her door breaks into her reverie. She looks down at the paper, at the handwritten letter she had started. She and her parents had always used paper to communicate, even when the loneliness and homesickness had nearly overwhelmed her at university—a first for her family, who had not ventured much from their small village—then as an officer-candidate, the first for several generations who had left Mother Alderaan. She smiles as she hears the deep, accented voice from outside the hatch.

“Hey, Megaton. Let’s see if you bomber jockeys are as lightweight as I have heard.”

Elann closes the notebook and stands. An unaccountable warmth surges through her heart—an antithesis of the feelings from the meeting with Jano Secor. She opens the hatch and greets her fellow division leaders with what she hopes is a bright smile.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann Florlin stumbles towards consciousness. As the fog manages to fade, she realizes that she is lying on a hard pallet in a room filled with a low murmur of voices. She tries to focus on what is being said, but finds that her brain still feels like it has been replaced with gauze in her skull.

Her eyes blink rapidly, but she can focus only on the gray ceiling of wherever she is. She hears a female voice at the edge of her consciousness. “She is waking up,” the voice says. The tiny part of her brain that is functioning tries to analyze the voice. The voice sounds as if it is underwater and dipped in molasses. Meglann tries to rise from the pallet, but an iron hand pushes her back. She feels something cold against her neck, then a brief intense pain centered in the same place. Her eyelids grow heavy again, as her mind flows through a rushing glimpse of her life in brief seconds.

Her mind focuses on one image; on one moving image. A young woman’s face, very similar to her own, looking down at her, a broad smile on her face. Meglann sees something in the edge of her vision. A blob of dull color, moving as if human. She hears a deep voice, indistinct, but definitely male coming from the area of the splotch of gray-green. She realizes that the young woman wears clothing very similar to the indistinct shape. Meglann cannot tell if what she is seeing; the blotch, is actually as real as the rest of the vision.

Another shape comes into focus. A male, but with a different voice. The interloper has a similar face to the young woman, but with worry lines etched into his forehead over a bronze colored beard. Another man walks up to the first—the one with her own eyes and similar hair—and takes his hand as he looks down at her with an angry expression. An angry expression that softens as she feels him run his fingers through her hair.

The vision flashes to another—this with loud sobbing and the pained expression of the man with her eyes. The man is now alone, his expression one of loss and bewilderment. He looks as if he tries to say something, but cannot. She realizes that the sobbing is her own, in a much younger voice.

The vision switches once again. Meglann feels water flowing over her skin, a gentle warm mist. She realizes that she is held in the arms of that same young woman, their bare skin touching as the young woman moves a washcloth over her much smaller self. The young woman laughs as she sings a soft lullaby. Meglann’s child-self feels warm and safe.

Protected.

She is able to just make out words as the young woman stops singing. She feels lips brush her cheek as the cascade of warm water ceases. Her mind smiles as she hears the words.

_My little Hammer._

Even through the veil of memory and years, the word resonates with her.

She screams as she is yanked from her past, as her eyes snap open and focus immediately on a cadaverous-looking being, gazing down at her through dead gray eyes, surrounded by more grayness.

~=~=~=~=~=

Flori Laken, Handmaiden of Alderaan, takes a deep breath as she stands before the plain wooden door. She looks down at herself; at the business suit that she has donned for this visit. She recalls Queen Breha’s words to her as she had asked her to come to this small house. _I would rather go myself, my dear, but I am not sure that with everything that is going on that my presence would help or hinder._

Flori smiles. She is very sure that Breha would shoot her way through any rival Councilors to get to this door, if needed. Her smile fades and her eyes tear. The young Zeltron is just as sure that she sent Flori on this errand for Flori’s sake—so that she could feel like she was doing something for her friend.

The Handmaiden thinks of the last time that she had visited this house. A late hour, after dancing, fumbling and giggling at the rear basement entrance that was Meglann’s living space. She pushes the thoughts of stumbling into bed, Meglann’s skin against hers, as the light crashed down around them in each other’s arms.

Flori sheepishly opens her eyes as she realizes that the door has opened and an older man is staring at her. She fights the flush of embarrassment that she knows is burning her crimson skin. She forces her eyes to morph back to their customary blue from the cinder-black of her memories.

The man stands there, looking at her, his shaven head gleaming in the morning sun. His bronze and gray beard twitches with exasperation. She makes to open her mouth. She realizes that Meglann’s eyes look out at her, but only in a hint of similar features. The eyes stare at her from a much lower vantage, as she sees that the man only comes up to her shoulder—she is of a height with Meglann, as her people usually are. He is also much broader than Meglann, with obvious strength in his shoulders and meaty hands and arms. Flori brushes uncharitable thoughts about resemblance to parents from her mind.

The brown eyes are not filled with Meglann’s sparkle. Only with wariness and something else. A great deal of pain, but the gaze is tempered with something else than the exasperation.

Suspicion.

“I suppose you are from the Palace. Here to waste my tax dollars in trying to figure out how you lost Meglann. Either that or out some remorse for what happened to her diner.” He stops, then jerks his head inside. “Well, come on in, then. Let’s get this over with.”

Flori stares at his retreating back. She sighs. _Maybe Breha isn’t doing me any favors_. She closes her eyes. _People grieve in different ways, Floranelles._

As she follows him into the parlor, she is struck by the warmth of the space—warmth that belies her host’s manner. Her eyes fall on bright holos spaced around the comfortable room. Her eyes lock in particular on a holo of a younger version of the man she follows and another man—a younger man with ebony skin, holding hands, laughing as they stare at each other in an obvious wedding photo. Her eyebrows raise, as Meglann had never mentioned having two fathers. _Of course, she had never really discussed her parents._

Her eyes move to another holo. Of a young woman who appears to be in her late twenties, holding an infant. Flori gasps as she sees the resemblance to her friend—her _ta’in-gere_ —her sister-of-the-heart, in her people’s words, a status that she now admits to herself—in the woman’s face. The woman is clad in a bright sundress and is laughing at whoever is holding the camera.

Flori’s eyes move to the left of that holo. Her eyes widen as they fall on the other two holos. Two representations of the young woman dressed in different uniforms, standing in a formal pose next to the flag of the Republic. In the holo next to the picture with the infant, the woman is older, with more little brightly colored red and blue tiles on the chest of her gray-green tunic. Flori briefly looks at the other formal picture. The woman’s face comes closer to resembling Meglann’s with the sparkling eyes more apparent and the bronze hair in a ponytail. Her eyes light on the golden wings on the sleeve of the unfamiliar burgundy uniform. She forces her eyes back to the picture of mother and child. She hears a sound like a sob from her own throat as her eyes light on the bronze cap of curls on the infant’s head.

She feels liquid spill on her cheeks as a hand touches her arm. She turns to see the man looking at her, a much softer look in his eyes over his brown and white beard. He hands her a clean handkerchief.

“She is much more than just a Palace assignment for you, isn’t she?” he asks gently.

Flori manages to nod as she attempts to bring herself back to some semblance of professionalism. He guides her to a couch, then walks out of the room. She looks up as she feels her heart calm. He hands her a glass of water. As she downs it, she sees a bit of the warmth that she has always seen in Meglann’s face.

“Forgive me, my dear,” he says, his voice gentle. “I have already received a visit from a government official. A visit that was not pleasant. My name is Dalist Florlin-Helt. You might have had an inkling, but I am not ‘Glann’s father. I am her uncle. That young woman in those holos who you seemed to recognize is my younger sister. She is Meglann’s mother. Elann Florlin.” He smiles with a hint of pride. “Commander Elann Florlin of the Republic Navy, and before that, the Judicial Department’s Fleet.”

He looks down, his own eyes tearing. “She died in the first year of the Clone War. At a place called Ryloth.”

~=~=~=~=~=

His Grace, Dorith Panteer, Councilor of State for the sovereign and Serene world of Alderaan, closes his comm, carefully scrubbing the coded text from the device. He smiles as he thinks of another possible angle of annoyance to the conjoined Houses of Antilles and Organa. He picks up his datapad and scans a report. A report on the movements of another young woman. A young woman apparently also dear to Bail and Breha Organa. _Dear to them for some reason other than her skill and experience_ , he thinks. He closes his eyes as he remembers her rebuff to his offer. His offer to rule the world with him. _Something that an awkward, arrogant Naboo jumped above her maturity would not be offered on a daily basis._

As his eyes remain closed, he misses the flicker of the datapad’s screen.

~=~=~=~=~=

Flori takes the cup of caf offered, sighing appreciatively at the fragrant smell. It had already been a long morning. She waits patiently, watching Dalist sit and gather himself as he stirs his own caf. Flori watches closely as she tries to see anything of Meglann in her uncle and guardian—guardian at least until Meglann had passed the age of majority.

Dalist takes a deep breath. “Meglann was born around the time of the Republic’s crisis with the Trade Federation and Naboo. I remember it because Elann was sad that she went to Reserve status when the drumbeats of war were starting up and her comrades would be in harm’s way. She found a job in the Defense Ministry of Alderaan—she was able to keep her skills up, but I think she missed what she had been doing.” He shakes his head. “I know that she threw herself wholeheartedly into raising that little girl. She loved her with every part of her being. I would always catch her looking at her, as if she was reminded of someone.”

Flori smiles, then takes a sip of her caf. She sets the cup down. “How did Elann wind up in the Republic Navy in the war?”

“Duty. She had a sense of duty a parsec wide. For her, it was a part of love. Love for her daughter. For the Republic. They asked for experienced officers. She wasn’t able to be a pilot, but she was in the fight.” His expression grows dark. “Islan and I were just about to start our life together. I know that he wanted children, but both of us wanted to have some life first. He was angry at Elann at first, but when he saw that little ten-year old asleep, I saw him fall in love.”

Flori gets up and walks over to sit next to him as she sees the tears spill. She places her arms around him and pulls him close. “He didn’t really get to enjoy being her guardian after Elann was killed. Soon after that—only a year after we were married, he got sick. The lung-flux took him after another year. Something about the chemicals he used in his particular type of pottery. Chemicals that he refused to stop using. _For the tradition of his people, he said_.” He stares at the wedding holo. “Meglann was doubly devastated. She and Islan bonded closely, much better than she and I did.”

Flori opens her resonance, just a tiny bit, letting the warmth and love that she feels reflect to him. He calms. “We never really connected. I didn’t know what to do. I’m a homebody—never been off of Alderaan, not even to go to Islan’s world. I could always see that she wanted to touch the stars. She was just like her mother, wanting to see what was over the next horizon.”

Dalist grins ruefully. “She was never any trouble. We butted heads; she had the usual teenaged rebellions, maybe amplified a bit, but I love her. She seemed to struggle a bit, trying to decide a path. I was surprised as hell when she finally settled on accounting as her major. I would never think she would follow in my footsteps—I learned my skills by apprenticing in a larger village. I was proud of her for taking the risk on that diner.”

He looks at Flori. “You don’t have to answer this, but are you lovers?” he asks.

She looks away. “Occasionally,” she finally says. “But we value the friendship more than anything.” Flori smiles. “It’s kind of the way of my people.”

He smiles and puts his hand on hers. “I’m glad that she has friends and connections. I don’t pry. I did happen to glance out the window one night when I heard a noise. I saw her with a young Togruta coming home. I heard their laughter. I also saw the admiration in Meglann’s face for the woman.”

Flori says nothing; changes the subject. “You mentioned that someone else from the Palace came by. We haven’t actually sent anyone before now, until the Security investigation was more complete. What was the visit like?”

Dalist grows still. “He was an arrogant bastard. He kept focusing on Meglann’s father. I couldn’t tell him who it was—don’t know who he was. I think it was down to a few people Elann served with, but I didn’t tell him that.” He gets up and walks to a cabinet under the holos. He pulls out a small fragment of a holo hardcopy. He hands it to Flori. “I think that one of these two might be the father. Meglann found this in her mother’s keepsakes when she was about fifteen.”

Flori takes the piece of flimsicard. She sees Elann Florlin standing between two men. One, who is only a bit taller than Elann, looks at her at the moment that the scene is captured. Flori’s eyes widen as sees the almost possessive look at the younger woman. The other, a taller, younger officer, but still apparently older than Elann, stares at the other male. His expression is unreadable.

Flori cannot see any of Meglann in either one of them. She turns the holo over and sees the word scrawled on the back. Her eyes widen. She looks up at Dalist. “May I scan this? It might be helpful.”

He nods. “Do you think she is in danger? You seem intent on finding her.”

“I work with some people who want to talk to her. To see if the path she’s on is for the right reasons. They won’t try to persuade her otherwise, they just feel like it is their responsibility after what happened to her diner.”

He smiles. “She can make people care about her.” His expression grows serious. “I am a little concerned. The guy who came asking about her was kind of an asshole. He told me not to talk about his visit—he implied that something could happen if I did. Especially since...” He trails off.

“Since what, Dalist?” Flori asks gently.

He takes a moment to answer. “Since I have seen someone watching the house.”

Flori sits up. She pulls her comm and sends several texts. “If you don’t mind, I am going to have some Security Inspectors come by. One will be a sketch artist, if you can describe our asshole, as you call him.”

He touches her hand, laughing softly. “I can do you one better. I wasn’t always a stuffy accountant. I started as an artist. I can sketch it.”

She laughs with him. “You Florlins. So many layers. I think Meglann’s art might be her cooking.”

She gets up and walks to the window. She gives a casual glance outside, her eyes narrowing.

“I need to go. If I can use the back door, that would be great.” She sees his eyes widen. “I’ll let you know what is going on. Also, if you need to talk, I’ll help with that. I think that Queen Breha might want to talk to you. As one parent to another.” She pulls him into an embrace, kissing his cheek.

As she turns, she asks. “Tell me, Dalist. I get the second syllable of Meglann’s name, from her mother. But could the first part be from her father?”

For the first time, Dalist laughs with unabashed enthusiasm. “Nope. All Elann. Her callsign, as she called it, was ‘Megaton.’ Had something to do with being a bomber pilot at heart.”

Her own laughter flows easily.

~=~=~=~=~=

The watcher curses his luck as he waits for the Zeltron to come out. He stamps his feet against the cold. _Why the hell did I get sent back to this pissant world? Why couldn’t I stay with the Antol’icha’s cadre on her new world?_ he thinks to himself. He curses again. The expensive business suit is not thick enough to provide enough insulation against the autumn chill.

A soft voice behind him causes him to whirl with an _ahem_. A tall young woman, dressed in a thermal bodysuit that does nothing to conceal the muscle definition in her arms, smiles at him.

“Hey, bud. Lurk around here often? Or were the spots at pri-schools all taken?” she says.

He starts towards her. The young woman is suddenly not where she had been standing, leaning against a lightpole. He grunts as his head connects with the pole.

As he shakes his head, trying to clear it, he feels a powerful arm circle his throat. Almost instantaneously the darkness moves into his vision. He tries to punch the body behind him, but feels a knifehand thrust into the area around his spine, causing his free arm to go numb.

Flori smirks as she walks up on the scene. Tasera M’Faru, former Peacekeeper and Imperial stormtrooper, and newest Handmaiden in Queen Breha’s service, rolls her eyes as she drops the thug to the ground.

“What?” she asks, annoyance in her tone.

“Pity you can’t grasp the makeup tips I was giving you as well as you obviously grasp the ‘choke the living shit out of somebody’ tips.”

“Didn’t need to be taught that, girlie,” the woman known to her friends and family as ‘Tika’ says. She grins. “You help me with the makeup and I’ll help you with the choking,” she finishes.

They both laugh as they heave the thug between them. Flori notices the almost uniform dress of the unconscious hulk. The uniform of the Antols, noted bad restauranteurs and murderers. She looks at Tika. They nod as the question comes to both of their minds.

_What are they doing back?_


	5. ‘Give of thine an Acre unto me.’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sheer variety of the early Rebel cells was astounding, with their diversity of experience, as well as the species that populated them. Slicers, such as Touchstone and Ano Lessi, a Pantoran who refused a codename, preferring never to have contact with sentient beings, except for Touchstone and her superior, Pantoran Senator Riyo Chuchi, were astounding in their ability to slice into any system, including some of the most secure in the galaxy._
> 
> _Leaders of worlds, even though their secrets were jealously guarded and compartmentalized, did their parts in ways small and large to protect their secrets and foster hope for a darkened galaxy._
> 
> _Even small examples of light, such as aid to a citizen of one world taken by the laws of another, were enough to light the way in those early days_.
> 
> Excerpt from Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest, Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

Tamsin, newly appointed Captain for the Corellian Engineering Corporation, waits by the airlock of her CR-90 corvette, one of the newest examples of the dependable ship. She looks at the the name of her ship, the _Jamestyn’s Hope_ , written in High Galactic script on the bulkhead near the hatch. She isn’t sure who Jamestyn is, but she remembers the effect the name had on a particular passenger who had taken a trip to Coruscant on this ship a few months back—not that she cared too much. She wasn’t a student of history, or even a student of human psychology. She was a pilot. 

Tamsin smiles, tucking a curly lock of bright green hair behind her ears. She had looked up the name, more for a passing interest in the ass of the passenger who had looked so wistfully at the representation of the name. Her smile fades as she had seen the pain on his face when he had returned from whatever business meeting he had attended with the tall, slightly sinister looking man on the docking platform.

She sighs. Tamsin is under no illusions as to what her main purpose is, rather than shuttling royal wankers and CEC bigwigs around. Ever since she had first started working for Bail Organa, she had gained a quick inkling of what she and her partner at the time had actually been doing for the Senator. 

Tamsin’s expression grows thunderous, as it always does, when she thinks of her ex-partner, Chardri Tage. A man she had spent over ten years with, growing from pilot and co-pilot, to lovers. The realization had struck her, hard, after a mission for Bail had resulted in both of them embarrassed—not to mention sore—after Organa had neglected to mention that the young woman that they had been instructed to bring in, _Aurek_ , might been a little skittish about coming in, and _Besh_ , was a highly skilled fighter. A highly skilled fighter who had wiped the floor with both of them. Neither had gotten a good glimpse of her; the fight had happened so quickly. Tamsin had only the hint of blue and white montrals and lekku—not very high or long—the mark of a not-quite-mature example of the species. 

It had all started to fall apart soon after that. Chardri did not hold a grudge. At least against the fighter, who they had both heard rumors had become an integral figure in Bail’s organization. 

Tamsin curses under her breath, allowing her Mando heritage to overwhelm the Alderaani half. Tage had not held a grudge against the young woman, but had certainly held one against her for the crime of not having a harder head against the fighter’s bastons. Even though he had fallen first and had been nearly twice the woman’s size.

It had taken nearly four years, but their continuous arguments, and inability to speak with one another had led the Hand of the Queen to finally take action. She had been angry at the young woman after the final blowup, in which Tamsin had lost her cool and questioned Bail’s parentage in a meeting. Nola Vorserrie had pushed her out of the room and proceeded to toss her from the world. As she was leaving, the young Naboo had met her at the spaceport, embraced her, and then given her a one-way ticket to Corellia with a scheduled interview with Draq’ Bel Iblis and a Zeltron of about her age, whose laughing purple eyes had appraised her with interest. Her smile returns as she remembers the personal follow-up interview with the woman in her office—after Draq’ had given her the job.

Tamsin grins. A new start, without the over two meters and 130 kilograms of immature baggage attached. She pushes the memory of laughter and the feel of his skin against her lips away.

The airlock cycles. She straightens, looking at her reflection in a nearby port. The tank top, under a Corellian-style field jacket, doesn’t exactly scream professional ship’s captain, especially coupled with her newly colored green and blue hair. Her dark eyes flash with merriment and light, especially in her new job. She rolls her eyes as one of the former Corellian Rangers who now supplement her understrength crew walks by and gives her a one-finger salute.

Her eyes turn as the airlock opens. They stare into a pair of blue eyes under blue and white montrals and lekku. Longer now. The blue eyes flash as they fall on her, even though Tamsin had been helmeted, over four years ago..

Tamsin closes her eyes. “Well, this is going to be a long damned trip,” she hears the Togruta say. “I thought you were taller.”

~=~=~=~=~=

Phygus Baldrick turns as he hears familiar footsteps enter his cavelike domain. For once, the earbuds that blast what some would say is a questionable taste in music, are silent as they hang from his neck. He starts with his usual commentary, but falls silent as he sees Draq’s expression. 

“What is it, Draq’?” he asks quietly. 

Bel Iblis starts from thought. Phygus can tell that he is weighing a snarky rejoinder, true to his heritage and his nature, but he stops himself. 

“Nothing, Phygus. Have you found what Ahsoka was looking for with that datachip?”

Phygus shakes away his own sarcastic response. “Yeah. Apparently the coordinates needed are where the Imp has wound up.” He looks away. “The Imp is in command of a light cruiser. Over Ryloth.”

Draq’ sits, his eyes apparently searching for which deity to curse at their luck. Phygus starts to offer him his own short list, but thinks better of it. _What the hell is wrong with us? We have no problem snarking at each other._

His eyes look back at his screen, to the hardcopy of a holo pasted on the screen. The official portrait of the current Imperial advisor. One that has a dark goatee/mustache and spectacles combination drawn over it. He is sure that Draq’ would make him take it down if he had seen it, with some choice words for his lack of common sense and security awareness. 

Phygus doesn’t have the heart to tell the Dragon of the Corellia that the guilty artist is none other than the sober and mature holder of the Covenant Chain. A design implemented after said Covenant’s dinner date with the Advisor. All in the name of establishing bonafides as a bon vivant and master cocksman about town. Phygus grins. He is sure that Bryne couldn’t spell bon vivant, but that he is much deeper than the word ‘cocksman’ would imply. 

He feels an insistent tapping on the center of his forehead. Draq’s forefinger is rapidly connecting with that spot. He braces himself for the onslaught. Instead, Draq’ presents a different smile than the one that he is known for the galaxy over—a reptilian example that has been known to disrupt planetary alignments. “I know that you are probably thinking about Ano, right now, but I really need you to focus.”

_Okay, who are you and what have you done with Draq’ Bel Iblis?_

He shakes his head. “What do you need, Dragon?” he asks. 

Draq’ takes a deep breath, releases it. “Do you think that this Seppie fleet of castoffs exists? Or is Fulcrum grasping at straws, trying to prove herself?”

Phygus shakes his head. “No. I think it’s a real possibility that it exists. You know as well as I do, that Ahsoka Tano doesn’t need to prove herself to anyone. But I do think she might be a bit obsessed. Not because of what you think. It’s more personal.” He takes a sip of energy drink. Draq’ watches him patiently. He puts the can down. “I think it’s because of Bryne. I think that she feels the need to find these things, to justify everything he has endured, since they reconnected.”

Draq’s blue eyes roll. 

“Yeah, I know. It’s self-sacrificing poodoo. But you know them as well as I do. She may bang her head against the nearest brick wall to find them, not just for what little value they might have to Organa’s group, but what they mean to his sacrifices.”

Draq’ closes his eyes. “You said Ano might have found something else?”

Phygus grins with pride. “Yep. Maybe closer to home. She was going through some of the Diktat’s archives from the last fifty years—guess she was trying to figure out the lay of the land. Can’t imagine why she might want to learn about my home planet.”

Draq’ smiles. “Me neither, little man.”

“She found something from the time of the Clone Wars. Something called the Katana’e.”

Draq’ looks mystified. “Plural of Katana—a very old weapon on one of our continents. What does it sound like?” He snaps his fingers. “Wasn’t there a legend about an old Republic fleet....?”

Baldrick puts up his hand. “Yeah. I know. The Outbound Flight. That seems to be no more than Jedi bedtime stories, or horror stories, made up by the Empire. This might be more concrete.”

“How so?” 

“A purchase order for about two dozen _Nebulon-B_ frigates from Kuat. Never delivered, as I can tell. But the funds were dispersed, to a third party.” Baldrick shows Draq’ the date of purchase.

Draq’s blue eyes are troubled. “That’s just after we declared _Contemplanys Hermani._ The neutrality in the Clone War. I was Procurator, then, as well. How come I’ve never heard of this?”

“Don’t know. It was under the Diktat’s Century Hold.”

“You mean to tell me that your girlfriend managed to break a seal on something that’s supposed to remain sealed for a century after that Diktat’s death?”

Phygus smiles with pride, but says nothing. 

“What the hell was Merricope thinking? Was she actually dealing illegally in arms?”

Phygus thinks on this for a moment. “No. She was your protege, Draq’. I don’t think she would. She had to have her reasons. Why don’t you ask her?”

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms.” Draq’ says nothing further. “I know someone who is, though,” he says with an eyeroll. He smacks his hands together, then rubs them against one another absently. “Whatever the past, two dozen heavy frigates could be useful. They’re heavier than anything Organa might be able to come up with en masse. More useful than droid ships, too.”

He slaps Phygus on the back, nearly bowling him off of the stool. “I guess your dick does have some use,” he says. “Keep digging.

 _There’s the Dragon I know and love,_ Phygus thinks as Draq’ leaves. Before he exits, he turns to Phygus. “Tell Ano thanks for me. I’ll buy you both dinner.”

Phygus Baldrick’s eyes are still troubled as he is no closer to discovering what is bothering Draq’.

~=~=~=~=~=

Drop looks from one thunderous face to one calm, now armed only with a Smirk. He watches as Ahsoka unconsciously mirrors the Captain’s stance; her arms placed across her chest. Fulcrum’s own addition to the stance includes her head cocking to the right and the Smirk disappearing.

“So,” he says innocently. “You two know each other?”

Both sets of eyes, blue and brown turn and lock on him. Ahsoka’s lip quivers on the right side, then quirks upwards.

“Yeah,” she says. “You could say that. If you would call me kicking her and her oversized boyfriend’s ass around a hangar bay after they yanked my ship in with a tractor beam without so much as a ‘howdy’, knowing her, then yeah.”

“Or,” Tamsin adds, “you could say that us saving her young ass from a new and exciting job as a Black Sun gunsel, paying off all the debts she incurred by being a pain in the ass, or worse, then, yeah, we know each other. Yeah, that’s right, ‘sweetums’. We found out most of the full story.”

“So where’s your boyfriend?” Ahsoka asks. “If I remember correctly, he went down first after my love tap.”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” the Captain says. “I unassed a little dead weight.”

“From what I understand, Alderaan unassed you, as well.”

Tamsin’s smile falters, but regains its strength. “Yeah. I should thank the Hand of the Queen and the Viceroy.” Her grin widens. “From what I can tell, the fringe benefits on Corellia are a lot better. Already met this gray-haired wanker who I had a little fun with. He was a fun ride. Took him to Coruscant a couple of months ago.”

Drop closes his eyes as he prepares for the onslaught. Just before they close, she sees the thunderous expression on Ahsoka’s face; as well as the fact that Talle seems to be enjoying herself immensely, her head swiveling from side to side, back and forth.

His eyes snap open as he hears Talle ask, “What’s a wanker?” He starts to open his mouth, before he sees Ahsoka’s expression. He calms as he sees the smile break out, lighting her face up. She takes a deep breath and nods.

“Good to know. I thought that he’d strayed a bit more from our bet. Just didn’t have confirmation.” She looks down, her face suddenly grim. “I thought that he had a pretty dark time on Coruscant.”

Drop looks at Tamsin, whose eyes are wide. The Captain’s features relax as well. “Yeah, I thought so, too. Something was clearly bothering him when he got back. He met some guy on the platform and was gone overnight. The guy looked like a few kilometers of bad road.”

Ahsoka looks at her. “Did you take his mind off of it?” she asks directly. 

Drop can see Tamsin about to reply, but thinks better of what she will say, or at least, how she says it. She smiles. “I think that we did,” is all that she says. Drop rolls his eyes at the plural. 

Ahsoka nods, her eyes distant. “Thank you,” she whispers. The Smirk flows back with even more intensity. “He did get his shots afterwards, right?”

There is silence. Finally, Drop starts to laugh. After a moment, Ahsoka and Tamsin join in. Drop notices that a crewmember, a male Corellan with large ears and bright red hair under his green beret is watching wide-eyed at the exchange. Along with Talle.

Tamsin notices. “What is it, Obie?” she asks, her laughter fading.

Obie starts as he is addressed. “We’ve broken orbit, Captain. Course?”

Tamsin looks at Ahsoka. She checks her comm. Her eyes grow hard. “Ryloth,” is all that she says, before turning and walking away.

Drop watches as Tamsin’s expression grows thunderous again

~=~=~=~=~=

Dorith Panteer stands in the Orator’s Well of the Council of Graces. His ice-blue eyes flash in his dark features as he prepares. He closes them, as if centering himself.

In reality, he is attempting to quell his growing sense of triumph. Triumph that his family will finally be able to move from the shadow of the Organa-Antilles cabal. All while exacting a price from a young woman, not of this world. A young woman who had refused the world when he had offered it to her.

He opens his eyes, then his mouth in a broad smile—an expression he has been known for throughout his career, starting as a Junior Legislator for the Republic. A smile that is the product not just of genes, but of the finest dental practitioners in the galaxy; almost from birth. 

He looks up in the gallery. He sees a bent figure seated in a private suite. Dorith nods slightly to the figure, who remains expressionless. A part of his being cries out for some recognition from the old man. He knows it will not be forthcoming. It is not his way. As it had been for over thirty years; from the time that he had been sent to the old man after the deaths of his parents. The beginning of a grooming for this moment. A moment to seize the Candlewick Throne, as was their right from over a century ago. A moment that his grandfather could not savor himself, at least not publicly, as the primary condition of a Royal parole, from a predecessor of the current Queen and her Viceroy.

He brings his attention back to an empty chair. A chair that is reserved for the Monarch when she is present in the chamber. Panteer doesn’t allow his smile to falter. He brings his focus back to one of the members. A nameless, almost faceless nobody, but one on whose vote could hinge today.

Dorith Panteer speaks to her, directly.

“I come to you today, to inform you that our rulers are not proving themselves worthy of our trust—a trust we have placed in the Combined Houses for years.” He softens his voice, seeing the listener strain as if to hear. “I, too, have benefited from the rule of Queen Breha and her forebears. I/ve cheered the Mother’s triumphs and prosperity. But in the last few years, my trust has faltered.” He pauses again, to take a sip of water—water that was not needed.

“It has come to light, through the organs of our watchers—the journalists, who guard our rights, that one person, entrusted by the Queen and the Viceroy, with almost unchecked power. Unchecked power that has resulted in decisions that we can question, indeed, many question. The hiring of a Corellian as the new Peacekeeper-General. A Corellian that this person has been linked with in a disgraceful manner on his home planet.” The whisper in his mind, that has been nagging at him rises slightly in volume. _You just wanted her to be linked with you._

“With this latest report, that she has used her office to enrich herself, to an almost unbelievable degree, I feel it is time to act.” His eyes widen slightly as they fall on a figure who has just entered the chamber. He shakes his head, bringing his thoughts to his words. “I call for an investigation by this body into the administration of the Royal House. To this end, I call for a coercive subpoena to be issued for Nola Vorserrie, former Hand of the Queen.” 

He allows a bit of anger—a tremor—to flow to his voice. “It’s not known where the former Hand has made off to. I have my theories that she has shown her true allegiances by falling in with Corellians.” There is a low murmur. He stops as he hears the words. _Watch that. The Corellians are popular with their pocketbooks._

Dorith holds his hand up. “Please, your Graces. It pains me to say. I think that we need to focus on our own house—our own world. Please allow me to investigate this malfeasance by this former Crown official. To bring her to the justice she deserves.” He bows, the smile still on his face. “I thank you for the opportunity. I yield the rest of my time to the Chair, for the presentation.”

As he is walking back to his seat he hears words that he had not expected. “All rise for Her Majesty the Queen.”

He turns towards a hidden entrance. Grudgingly, he bows with his colleagues. Breha’s dark eyes lock with his as she passes him at a measured pace. She turns and sits in the Monarch’s Chair. She nods, allowing all to sit.

“Madame Chair, please continue. I look forward to hearing more of this _evidence_ that his Grace speaks of.”

The silence in the chamber is palpable.

Dorith Panteer turns and bows to the Chair, as well as a sketch of a bow to the Monarch. He turns and walks towards his seat, as a staffer prepares the presentation. His eyes lock with the figure at the door. A figure he had last seen in a pure white tunic, the symbol of the Empire on the cloth. A figure who is now dressed in a civilian suit.

Leeza Antol, now known as Leeza Lardai, former acting Director of the Imperial Security Bureau, scion of a family of spectacularly inept restaurant owners and modestly more successful crime lords, nods, a blank expression on her own bronze features. After holding his gaze, she turns and leaves

A shorter figure, dressed in that same white tunic remains behind, glowering in the direction of the Monarch’s chair. A much taller figure watches the entire byplay from the press gallery, her green eyes tracking Antol and Panteer. 

Jessta Verlaine smiles as she turns back to the testimony. 

~=~=~=~=~=

The forward eyes her opponents, sizing each of them up. Her feet dance softly, as her gloved fingers flex in anticipation. The goalkeeper holds the ball in one hand, eyeing her, searching for the right team-member to send the ball to. 

The forward’s purple eyes track the goalkeeper’s selection of a player to receive the ball. She lifts her foot to start her run to the right. As she starts, she takes one step, then jinks to the left—straight towards the defender that the ball arcs towards. She shoves her shoulder into the chest of the defender, but bounces off of the larger figure. She moves slightly and switches to a shove from her left shoulder. A slight punch with her left hand, slight enough that there is no red chip tossed in her direction, or even a yellow, but enough to throw the defender off balance. The ball tips up from her toes, to her skinned knee, up in the air.

She laughs as it comes down onto the crown of her head in a perfect bounce to the side of her foot. The ball touches the ground for an instant before she shifts forward, kicking the ball before her. She charges towards the goal, sideswiping a much larger opponent. Her laughter reverberates across the pitch, the only other noises that of her opponents converging on her. 

Her eyes lock on the goalkeeper with the same focus that she gives to much more intimate activities, or other activities that she gets paid for—least she used to get paid for. 

She shakes her head, sweeping the sweat from her eyes—eyes that have now transitioned to the black with the pure joy of dodging and charging, all the while keeping the ball on target for its objective. As she moves for the final kick against the goalkeeper, the vision of a small girl with honey-colored hair lifting her hands up to the forward, laughter on her lips and in her gray eyes. She shakes the vision away, for another time, but it is too late. Her concentration is broken. 

Two defenders, shooting towards her with the accuracy of a missile, misjudge as she tries to correct her kick’s aim at the last second.

Daaineran Faygan tries to clear her head as she lies flat on her back, the two defenders on either side of her, where they had collided. Each on either side of her. She groans, attempting to get up. Her tortured muscles give way and she slumps back down. “Freeze,” she says. Her droid opponents dutifully slump over, the lights where their eyes would be dimming. 

She lies back, trying to catch her breath. _Is this what my life is now? The only physical activity is playing boloball against droids, getting my ass kicked?_ A shadow blocks the sun. She looks up, squinting. A hand reaches towards hers and helps her up.

At least to her knees. She looks down. A manicured finger, but one attached to a hand that has known hard work, lifts her chin, so that she gazes into a pair of brown eyes. Eyes with a hint of calculation, but filled with warmth and intelligence. The eyes soften as a smile flows to the mouth below. Dark brown hair, cut short in a stylish and functional fashion, flops over one eye. Dani closes hers as she remembers in embarrassment pointing out that cut to the style-droid when too many injuries and trips to bacta had necessitated a shorter, more functional fashion. 

“Remind me, dear, but I could be mistaken. I don’t think you are supposed to tackle each other in boloball. I think the rules are very specific on that in the Beautiful Game,” the older woman says. 

“Well, maybe the forward isn’t supposed to be old and decrepit and be able to dodge,” Dani says. 

“Bullshit, my dear. You’re barely thirty. Wait until you’re the advanced age of forty-seven. Then come to me.”

“It is my turn to call bullshit on you, your Excellency. I’ve gotten my ass kicked by you in that ‘light exercise’ that you call marathon swimming. Just last week, as a matter of fact.”

The woman reaches down and pushes a lock of hair that has come loose from the messy ponytail from Dani’s eyes. “Yes, dear. But then you wore me out afterwards,” she says. “And I think you can drop the ‘your Excellency’ poodoo. I’m not the Diktat and you’re not my best intern anymore.”

Shyla Merricope, the leader of Corellia in the galactic conflagration of the last war, touches Dani’s cheek. Dani looks down, pushing her cheek into the palm.

“Finally got to act on the crush on my boss, though,” Dani says, a smile flowing to her features. “Even though it was years afterward.”

She squeaks as Merricope yanks her the rest of the way up. The ex-Diktat goes to embrace her, but stops, a grimace of distaste on her classic features. She waves her hand in front of her nose. “You ain’t exactly fragrant my dear. At least not enough to be my date.” She gives Dani a brief kiss.

“Date? Date for what?”

“The Imperial Advisor’s afternoon audience. I can’t refuse the invitation and I damned sure ain’t going alone, sweetie.” She sees Dani’s thunderous expression. “Relax, Dani. There’ll be good whisky, and I’ll make it up to you,” a hooded look on her pale features. “At your place, where there might not be hidden ears. You did say you wanted to talk about some things from the War, as well as current events.”

Dani’s look fades, her mouth going set in a grim line. She nods and lets Shyla take her hand, their fingers entwining. The practice droids sit forgotten.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dorith Panteer walks into his office. He smiles at the figure lying on the couch. He walks over and runs his hand over the woman’s bare hip, moving his lips to hers. 

“Hello, darling,” Leeza t’Lardai says. “You’re playing a dangerous game with the Organas.” 

He idly picks up the civilian blazer from the carpeted floor. He feels her hands move to the belt buckle of his expensive suit. He kisses her again. “Perhaps, dear. But if I succeed, your efforts from earlier will have softened them up. Especially now that they don’t have their pet Corellian here to trample on anyone who gets in their way.”

She puts her fingers on his lips, as the last of his clothing joins hers on the floor. “Shh. You don’t have to sell me on the ‘liberty of the people’ speech. I know that you’ve a more base reason.”

“What is that?” he asks as he lies on top of her.

“Revenge. Good old fashioned revenge,” she replies. “It’s why I gave you that bounty hunter broker’s contact information.” She gives a deadly smile. “Pity you can’t reach Covenant in this.”

There are no more words, only less distinct noises after that.

~=~=~=~=~=

Jessta Verlaine moves quickly from the Council chambers to the small cubicle just inside the main press room. She looks around, sees no one else in the vast room. She opens the small safe with her fingerprint, looks around once more, and pulls out the small bottle. She pours a healthy slug into her coffee cup. Her green eyes glisten as she remembers the words of her father. _A good reporter has healthy drinking problem, my dear._

“You know that’s not allowed in here, don’t you?” a dry voice asks. Jessta whirls in her chair, her eyes widening.

Breha Organa stands alone in the door of the press room, her ornate, but comfortable walking-out robes a spot of warmth in the airy, dingy room. Jessta catches the hint of a glow just under the neckline of the dress. She fumbles to rise and bow. Breha watches her with amusement as she runs her fingers through the mass of blonde hair tied back from her face. The Queen walks over to her cubicle. Jessta realizes that she towers over Breha, but feels as if she is a child from the raw power sitting comfortably on the rich velvet of the Queen’s shoulders.

She watches as Breha runs her fingers over the nameplate on the partition. _Verlaine Press. An Independent News Service._

The Queen smiles. “I knew your father, Ms. Verlaine. He was a good reporter. Fair.” She looks sharply at Jessta. “I don’t think he would’ve copied the gossip rags on Corellia for his scoop.”

Jessta feels her cheeks flame with anger. “Yeah, but I also don’t think he would be intimidated by the Queen, either,” she spits back. 

Breha calmly smiles. “I know. Tried it a few times in the early days of my reign. He put me in my place about the guarantees of a free press. I learned to listen to him a bit. Even when it hurt, he was always honest.”

Jessta looks away, as Breha continues. “I think that your father would wait and talk to all parties before he went with a story.” Her eyes sharpen at the younger woman. “He also wouldn’t be taken in by a snake-oil salesman like Dorith Panteer, parroting his words in his reporting.”

“What the hell....?” Jessta stops, takes a breath, releases it. Breha watches her expectantly. “I am sorry, my Queen. I cannot discuss an ongoing story. Especially one that might involve the Crown.”

Breha smiles again. “Not asking you to. Simply asking you to hear another side. Maybe you can talk to the Peacekeepers in at least three districts whose caseloads were halved in the space of a month with a change in administrations at the Square. Or talk to them about the fact that they seem to be able to do their jobs as they swore their oaths to, continuing to solve cases under the new, permanent Peacekeeper-General. Why don’t you talk to them, or maybe some of the victims of the Antols who can now maybe not live in fear.” 

“What about the two million credits that appeared in Vorserrie’s account?”

Breha snorts. “You might want to look deeper. All Nola owns is an older model racing speederbike, a blaster, and about two dozen participation trophies for races all over the Core.” Her eyes flash. “Oh, she has something else, too. Something that you and Panteer can’t take.”

She stops, her face growing still. She nods and turns away.

When she is gone, Jessta sits at her desk, looking out the dirty windows of the newsroom. She pulls out her comm, tapping a code sequence into the device. 

A muffled, curt voice answers. “I think that this may be harder than we thought. The Queen actually came to my office. She is digging around herself.”


	6. Meglann: Eclipse was all we could see at the Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In worlds the galaxy over, the word hell has absolutely no positive connotation. It is a place where either sinners are sent, to reflect in the most tortuous fashion upon those misdeeds, or in some cultures, it is the place where all of the dead congregate at various stages of the afterlife. It is a place of curses and pain. The Nine Corellian Hells, were no different. At least before a singular event in Corellian mythology—some would say history. After this particular event, ‘Hell’ does not necessarily refer to the place where evildoers and malefactors are sent upon their demise. After the Conquest by nine heroes and their conduit—conquerors of each of the realms, the Hells merely became places. The kept their connotation—never let it be said that Corellians will pass up a good oath._
> 
>  
> 
> _The Ifreann Concaire, or the Conquerors of Hell, each had specific names, based upon their skills or specific aspects of the Hell that they Conquered; when gathered by Draq’, the original Dragon-Lord. Their Chieftain, or Taoseach in Middle Corellian, was known as Tempest, he who conquered and ruled the First Hell—the Realm of Storms, or Anfara._
> 
>  
> 
> _The Pocket Guide to Corellian Mythology_

Bryne Covenant smiles as the young Zeltron Handmaiden clicks off the comm, blowing both he and Nola a kiss as she fades from view. He looks up at Nola, who is leaning against the bulkhead of the lounge. Murta and Boge are in the cockpit, along with Deuce, the ship’s gunner-droid and navigator, and Arseven, Ahsoka’s elderly astromech.

Bryne passes his datapad with the attached holo on the screen from Meglann’s uncle. “Do you know these officers, Nola?”

“No. I don’t,” she replies. “Do you actually think that she is on some quest to look for her father?”

He rubs his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

Nola is quiet for a moment. After that moment, she pushes off from the bulkhead and walks over behind him. Her hands move to his shoulders, the thumbs beginning to work the muscles. The knots push back against her. He lays his head back against her middle as she leans in over the top of the couch. They are quiet for several moments, except for a sharp grunt when she hits a particular spot.

“Where did you learn to do that, Nola?” he asks. He can feel the eyeroll before the words are fully out of his mouth.

“I was a Handmaiden of Naboo, General,” she says dryly. “It wasn’t all blaster training.” She grins. “I can paint your toenails, too.”

“Might come in handy,” he says with his own grin.

She lapses into silence again, concentrating on the task. He breathes in.

Nola taps him on the head. “Go ahead and ask it, Bard,” she says.

He turns around and looks at her. “Do you still think about your dead, Nola? About Queen Apailana and the others? About Tone?” he asks, naming the clone captain who had died when she had been taken prisoner by the Separatists.

“I do my Remembrance, Bryne,” she says. “Finally have mastered the Mando’a, so that it sounds like I know what I am doing.” She takes a deeper breath. “I finally have stopped asking forgiveness from them. For living.”

They both fall silent, as they hear voices from the past. Nola starts to speak, but closes her mouth. The only sound is their breathing, as he gives in to the pressure on his shoulders and neck.

She stops, her hands falling on his shoulders, her thumbs resting on his spine. “I find that I need to ask forgiveness of my living, more than my dead,” she whispers.

He reaches over his shoulders and takes her hands in his. He turns and smiles at her. “I think that you might only have to ask forgiveness of one, but I think she may already have forgiven you. She may be too damned stubborn to say it.”

Nola squeezes her eyes tightly shut. “What about you, Bryne?”

“I asked you to keep my identity a secret, because my world and my new family could suffer.” He drops her hands, raising his to his forehead. She starts to rub the knots in his shoulders again. “I had already said goodbye to her, in my heart, in spite of some of the strange sensations I was getting in the Force. I knew that I had to live again; or I would wind up back in Maz’s bar drinking and screwing myself to death.”

She stops massaging his shoulders, pulls him tightly to her, her face in his hair. He feels the moisture against his scalp.

“I cost you,” he hears faintly. “I cost you both precious time. All because of protocol and the movement. Because of my own fears of having to deal with your grief for each other if one of you died. Or my own if I lost you both.”

He reaches up and touches her hair. “I can’t give you absolution, Nola. Neither can Ahsoka. Only you can do that. But know this. We were both Jedi. We weren’t promised a life. Even now, nothing is guaranteed. Live for the here and now.” He trails off. After a moment, she breaks away.

He grins crookedly. “You give good shoulder rubs, No-no,” he says, breaking the spell.

He sees the look a kilometer away. “Yeah. It’s what I am good at.” She grins ruefully. “It certainly ain’t speederbike racing. I’ve got the participation trophies in my closet to prove it.”

He grows serious. “Nola, I’m going to have to ask you for something. I need your help in contacting a dead man.”

He sees a succession of emotions play over her face. Starting and ending with anger. “Dammit, Bryne, I swore I would leave him alone. He doesn’t want to be in the fight.”

“I know, love. But I need some expert Imperial advice on those faces we saw in Meglann’s holo.” He looks out at the stars, his eyes distant for a moment. “I think one of those faces, if I am right, he might show some interest in.”

After a moment, Nola nods. “I’ll contact him.”

“I’ll meet him wherever he wants me to,” Bryne says.

“May have him meet me, first. Might be easier that way,” she replies.

She reaches down and kisses him softly. “Thanks, Bryne. You going to bed?”

“No. I need to do some thinking. Might stay out here and fall asleep.”

“Want some company?” she asks.

He smiles and pats the couch beside him. As she leans against him, he opens his mouth to speak.

Murta Locke walks out into the lounge. He smiles through his beard. He opens a small compartment and pulls a blanket out, draping it over Covenant and Nola as they sleep. He closes his eyes as he leans against the couch.

He sees Meglann holding Gort as the cook’s life ebbs away. He knuckles his eyes, as if trying to scrape the vision away from his retinas.

~=~=~=~=~=

Meglann walks out from the kitchen with a large tray of food. She dips with expert skill, placing the plates of food for the quartet of Selonian businessmen. She also exhibits long-forgotten skill at dodging a furry hand that runs up the back of her bare leg in her tiny skirt. She moves back to the bar, placing the tray in the rack. She takes a deep breath, glancing up at the mirror as she tunes out the noise from the denizens of the casino-restaurant, a glance that she had avoided in the two weeks that she had been at this place.

Meglann only sees a vestige of her former self. She lifts her hands ruefully to the couple of centimeters of her hair that has grown out. She remembers waking up from what could only be a drug-induced sleep, coupled with the effects of the stun-blast. She remembers the shock when she had moved her hand to her head, wondering why it felt so cold. For an instant, she is not standing next to other servers in the bar, she is lying on the bare mattress of the tiny cell.

She is looking into the gray eyes of her future.

“Good morning, Asset #204. Welcome to your new life for the next seven years,” the figure had said. She had pushed the gauze from her mind as she tried to identify his species. _Near human. Umbaran?_ sounded in her mind. She focused on his dry, even tones, as she remembered what her name is to the universe now.

“My name is Elann Gort,” she managed to rasp out in her unused voice.

The Umbaran had smiled—an expression that somehow hadn’t purveyed any more warmth. “No, my dear. I am aware of your subterfuge, Ms. Florlin. Someone has been showing an inordinate amount of interest in you in the last few months. Other associates of mine are interested as well. It was the luck of the fates that led you to interfere with my commerce and help my indentured servant escape, before some of my other associates managed to grab you. I could legally take you in lieu of the escapee. I think I might have gotten the better end. A skilled cook is much more useful than a dishwasher.”

“What the hell do you mean, legally take me? I’m a free citizen...” she starts. She had felt just an instant of pain, radiating from her left ankle. She looked down at her foot. A small metal and plastic band circles the leg, just above the anklebone. She had seen the tiny spark moving over it.

“I will let that disrespect pass, since you are new. Ganthelian law allows that anyone who interferes with the lawful taking of an escaped indenture, can take their place. With an entirely new, seven year indenture.”

Meglann had allowed her mind to wrap around that. “I wasn’t on Ganthel,” she had said, her anger rising. She had seen his hand touch his wrist, and had screamed as a more prolonged lance of fire had burst up her leg.

“Really?” he had said, his voice as dry as Gort’s attempts at meatloaf. “My commerce-takers have no reason to lie about their location.”

A warm voice brings her back to the present. She looks up into the blue eyes of a human only a few years older than she is. “Hey, love. You need to pay attention. Don’t give them any excuse for a conditioning session.”

Meglann nods quickly, checking the screen for a new table. “Thanks, Sera,” she says to the bartender.

“No problem, dear. I’m sending you back to the kitchen. We’ve got enough help out here—you’re wasted on the line.”

Meglann smiles ruefully. “Yeah. At least it gets me out of the next line dance.” Sera laughs.

After her laughter fades, Sera grows serious. “Have you given any thought to what I offered?”

Meglann looks away as Sera continues, “I could persuade Gordo to let you stay at my place. You wouldn’t have to sleep in the basement storage. I have a spare room,” she says hastily at Meglann’s look. She touches Meglann’s shoulder. “I would love someone to talk to.”

Meglann weighs the offer. After a moment, she shakes her head. “I appreciate the offer, but you would be responsible for me. I can’t have someone responsible for me. Especially since I managed to wind up here because of someone else.” She suppresses the thought of how she spends her nights in the small cramped closet, lest it show on her face. Working at the ankle bracelet that keeps her within twenty meters of the property, with a purloined steak knife. She shudders as she thinks of the pain of her testing of the parameters. She had lain on the ground, hoping no one would see her unable to move. Dait Gordo, the Umbaran had been very specific as to what an escape attempt might bring. Two attempts would bring added years to the term of servitude.

A third attempt would show that she was more trouble than she was worth and bring what he had termed a ‘disposal,’ with all of the ominous tone that entailed. Gordo had smiled his death-like rictus. “Don’t even think because other parties might be interested in you, that this will save you. I could probably get more credits, when the time is right, if they know I am about to dispose of you.”

She comes back to the present. “Thank you, Sera, but I’ll stay here.”

Sera’s face falls. She smiles after a moment. “Okay, babe. Suit yourself. I think I know why you’re turning me down.” Her eyes narrow. “Be careful,” she finishes. “Get on back. Chef‘s waiting on you. He seems to be impressed.”

As Meglann turns away, she doesn’t seen the young man, his jaw set in pain, watching her. Mal Adede finishes his drink, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small packet. He opens it and dry swallows the powder within.

He smiles to himself as he thinks of all of the ‘other parties’ searching for this one girl. The eddies and currents from a hand’s worth of worlds.

He is the one who holds the answers. Even though he holds them for someone else.

For now.

~=~=~=~=~=

Selda polishes the bar as he watches the last of the noon three-drink lunch crowd trickle out. He lifts up his mechanical arm and brings up a bottle as the door opens and a now-familiar tall figure walks in. “Hello, Nola,” he says quietly. “Got the good stuff in, just for you.”

He pulls a snifter out and opens the bottle, pouring a finger or two, coating the bottom of the glass. He watches as Nola Vorserrie brings the snifter to her nose, inhaling appreciatively. She takes a sip, smiles. “That’s a helluva lot better than that _turu_ -grass shit you’re always try to feed me. Good Alderaani brandy.” She stops, thinks better of what she has said. “No offense,” she adds hastily.

“None taken,” he says, his deep voice tinged with amusement. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Our mutual friend, who comes from the Hunt-culture, hates it as well. She just drinks it for some cultural hoodoo. Plus, she knows it makes you puke and that you can’t resist a challenge.”

Nola grins and rolls her eyes at the same time. “Figured that. Just keep slinging it. I’ll keep trying to keep it down.” Their shared laughter rises.

When it fades, Nola sits at the bar. “So, you have something for me, Selda? I’m glad. Love your company, but my ass grows numb on your barstool every few days and I can feel my liver pickling.”

Selda’s scarred face breaks into a smile. “It’s always good to see you, Nola. A friend who worries over Ashla as I do,” he says, using the name that he had first known Ahsoka as. He notices the pain in her dark eyes, but doesn’t ask.

He points with his head, his amputated lek bouncing slightly. “There is a someone who a contact of mine said might know something about your friend. He is a rental-yacht Captain who lost his cook. She seems to match the description you gave, but the name is different.” He pushes the bottle towards her. “Here. He appreciates the finer things. This might help.” He waves her off as she reaches for her credits. “No. You helped persuade the Corellians to buy this place for me. You shouldn’t have to pay for drinks here.” He grins. “Especially if you help get rid of that damned moonshine.”

She looks down, then reaches over the bar and kisses him on his scarred umber cheek. “I’ll be back in a few, Selda. We’ll share some of this.”

Selda nods. “You look like you have some things to talk about. I’m your friendly neighborhood bartender. I’ll lend a montral to you.”

~=~=~=~=~=

Nola walks back to the booth that the old Togruta had pointed to. She stops as she surveys the one person sitting there. An elderly Pantoran looks back at her, a full white beard, faded from lavender on his wrinkled, tattooed face.

His bronze eyes, however do not match the face. They are the eyes of a much younger man. Clear, with a level of suspicion, as well as a high level of confidence. They narrow under the thick white eyebrows.

Nola realizes that he is wearing a captain’s dress coat, with the patches removed. She gestures at the seat across from him. He looks up in Selda’s direction, then gestures towards the seat.

“Hello, Captain,” she says. “My friend says that you may be able to help me find someone. Someone who is dear to me and several other friends.”

He nods. “I might,” he says in a clear Pantoran accent. He points his head at the bottle. “I could use a belt of something other than this rotgut.” He downs the rotgut and pushes his glass forward. She smiles and fills both glasses.

“So, what does this missing friend look like?” he asks.

Nola puts her glass down after a healthy sip, and pulls her datapad. She brings up a shot of Meglann, taken by Flori during a ‘family night’ dinner at her diner.

The old Pantoran smiles. “That’s Elann. Whoever snapped that, sure got the sparkle in her eyes. She was a helluva change from my last cook. Both the crew and our customers loved her, in the short time she was there. Good cook, friendly. She also had some promise as a pilot.”

Nola allows her eyebrows to raise at the last. She smiles wistfully. “Yeah, she is particularly good for a couple of friends of mine. What did you say her name was?”

“Elann Gort,” the Captain says. Nola grins again at that—a grin that she knows is tinged with sadness. The Captain notices.

“What? Is that not her real name?”

“No. Her name‘s Meglann.” She doesn’t add the family name. “What happened to her, Captain?”

He smiles. Nola realizes that the expression softens his scowling features a tiny bit. “She went off on a buying trip on Raxus Secundus. She‘d proven to be able to handle herself, especially if that damned frying pan was handy.”

For the second time in nearly as many minutes, Nola allows herself to smile wistfully, nodding.

“She didn’t come back. The DMP-E droid that went with her came back an hour later. Its memory showed two assholes in dark cloaks accosting some poor kid and her intervening. They stunned her and took off with her.”

“Do you have the footage?”

The Captain looks away. “No. I don’t. I reported her loss to our headquarters. I wanted to stay and find her. HQ said no. I tried to push it and found myself out of a job, tossed off of my own ship.”

“Who owned the ship?” she asks, gesturing at the places where the patches had been. She pours him another drink.

“Xizor Transport Systems. Their Luxury Entertainment Division.” The scowl returns to his face. “Rent-a-voyage for rich idiots.”

He looks up. “After I was tossed, I went to the authorities. They wouldn’t help, said they had too high of a caseload for a missing persons. Without the footage, I couldn’t fight the idea that she had jumped ship.”

“Anything you can tell me about the two that took her?” Nola asks.

“Not much.” He looks as if he is searching his memory. “They were masked, hooded, and caped. All in black. One of them might have been female.” He raises his finger. “Oh. They had a weird symbol in scarlet on the right shoulder of the cloak. Some strange ax in a chain wreath.”

Nola takes all of this in. After a moment, she pulls out a plasticard, hands it to the former Captain. “I don’t know if this will help much. My influence is a bit diminished, right now. But contact those people on Corellia and there might be a job for you, Captain...”

He holds out his hand. “Hern. Chi Hern.”

She takes his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Captain Hern. You‘ve been very helpful.”

He nods and rises. Before he leaves, he turns. “I hope that you find her. She’s a beautiful person, inside and out.”

“I know, sir. I know.” As he leaves, Nola thinks of watching her responsibility laughing and relaxing over breakfast food, the young waitress watching her every move, a small wistful smile on her face. She shakes the memory away and starts to get up.

A shadow falls over the booth. A growling voice penetrates her hearing. She sighs. A voice she had last heard whimpering in pain. Whimpering after she had shot him in both knees. A Bothan stands over her, his fur still glossy and sleek. “Hello, my dear. I had gotten out of the bounty hunting business. But when I saw your face on a sheet, I knew I just had to do one last job. Just for old time’s sake.” The information broker shifts painfully, his twin canes held tightly in his hands.

Nola takes a deep breath, surveying the motley collection of thugs standing behind the Bothan, their hands pointing various weapons at her. She sees Selda reaching under the bar. She gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“Hello, Krtsador. Maybe I should’ve aimed higher, like my friend would have,” she says.

“Get up, darling. Unfortunately, the bounty specifies that you have to be alive to collect.” He grins, all of his teeth showing. “It doesn’t say what condition you have to be in.” The grin takes an even nastier cant. “Wonder how you’ll like having your kneecaps blown out?”

“Drop all weapons!” comes a modulated voice from the front of the bar. Krtsador and his overlarge thugs turn towards the sound. Nola sees Selda’s eyes flick towards the back. She sees a slight opening, where she can use both the distraction and the bulk of the thugs as cover.

As she slips out, she sees four Imperial stormtroopers standing in the entrance, pointing their weapons at Krtsador and his minions. “Weapons are not permitted on Bothawui Proper,” the lead trooper says.

“But officer—,” she hears the Bothan’s wheedling voice start, before she is out of earshot. As she enters the small door to the back room, she looks at Selda. He grins at her as he watches the tableau unfold.

Nola is through the door and out of the storage room onto the street. She pauses for a moment to get her bearings. As she does, she feels a hand on her arm.

She twists and strikes out with her knee. She feels the knee strike a femur as her assailant dodges her aim. She raises her hand as she looks into a pair of mirthless black eyes under a stocking cap pulled down low.

Nola stops. The eyes are not quite as mirthless as a strong hand seizes hers before she can strike.

The eyes are not quite unfamiliar, either. She pulls her hand up and lifts the stocking cap an tiny bit. A nasty scar circles over the forehead just under a hairline would be, if his head was not shaven. She drops the cap back into position, nodding.

Dav Kolan looks out from an unfamiliar brown beard, a beard that ends just at the top of his ears.

“Hello, your Grace. How deep does the shit seem to be that you’ve gotten yourself into?”

She relaxes. “Pretty damned deep, Trigger. But that’s not why I called you.”

He pulls her into a small alcove, pulling the door to the storage unit down. She notices that the lock has been jimmied. Her eyes adjust to the dim light as her nostrils are assaulted by a cacophony of raucous smells. She looks at the ex-Imperial, squarely in the eye, as they are of a height.

“So. Let me guess. King needs his nuts pulled out of the fire,” he says.

“No. Not quite. A friend of ours may be in some trouble on Raxus. At least that’s where we have traced her to.”

“Would this friend be a smartassed Togruta who holds King’s balls in her hands?”

Nola rolls her eyes. “No. Another friend. Someone who means a lot to that person, as well as King.”

The sound of running, metal shod feet penetrates the door. Both of them come alert for an instant, until the sound recedes.

“So what do you need me for?” he asks.

“May need some Imperial advice. Plus there may be someone involved that you might be interested in,” King said, she replies.

His eyes flash for a moment, then look down. “I have a new life, Nola,” he says. “One with someone who’s good for me, who isn’t part of the darkness. I‘m not quite willing to give that up, easily.”

Nola sees his struggle through his expressions, if not his words.

He slumps, briefly. “But I owe you that new life. Where do I find King?”

“He’ll find you. Wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods, gives her the address of a hostel.

She turns to leave. He stops her with his hand on her arm. “So what are you into, Nola? How come somebody is willing to pay 200k to bring you back to Alderaan?”

She stops. “First I’ve heard of it. I’ve been expecting a warrant. Just didn’t...”

He cuts her off. “It’s not a warrant or subpoena. It’s a private bounty.” He smirks. “Halfway thought about collecting it myself,” he says.

“Might hurt,” she says, feeling a bit of the old snark and bravado.

Dav grins. “Maybe so, Nola. Can you get where you’re going okay?”

She gently takes his hand from her arm. After a moment, she takes a deep breath and says, “I can take care of myself. It’s nobody else’s problem.”

He cocks his head to the side. “That’s where you’re wrong, Nola. You might be able to—I don’t know. You’re very young. Probably think that you‘re invincible. But you do have people who’re willing to help you. Take advantage of that.”

She looks at him sharply. “Are you speaking from experience, Trigger?”

He grins wolfishly. “Maybe. Maybe I have gained something I didn’t know I was missing. But I also saw, even just a glimpse, of how you and the others look out for one another, way back in Wild Space, over Gontan Krell’s dead body. I don’t even think you have to ask them.”

She nods, then turns towards the door. “Yeah. Okay. Ship’s not too far. I can make it.”

He palms open the door, looks around then nods. “Tell King I’ll hold his hand. Or something else.”

“I really don’t want to know,” she says as she starts down the street.


	7. Said Passion, through contracting Breaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shyla Merricope, the last Diktat of Corellia for the old Republic, was an enigma within the early Rebellion. Her withdrawal from the political sphere after her ouster in favor of Dupas Thomree, Emperor Palpatine’s chosen candidate, was ironic in the fact that she never withdrew from the public sphere. She continued to be on the front pages of the Holonet, with her succession of lovers and conquests, her refusal to comment on public policy, and her much less conservative wardrobe. All traits that had not marked her political life, from her days as a junior legislator from the Crowneshield region._
> 
>  
> 
> _All while serving as an unofficial advisor to the early leaders of the Rebellion, through her contacts with the Bel Iblis faction—in spite of her public falling out with Draq’ Bel Iblis._
> 
>  
> 
> Excerpt from Volume I: Fulcrum and Tempest, _Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

Dani Faygan sits at a corner table of the social function. A function for which she had begrudgingly accepted the invitation. She smiles slightly as she remembers her invitation. She glances over at the direction of the scrum at the open bar. Her eyes shift back to the center dais. She watches as Delilah Sal, the Imperial Advisor, holds court in her white dress uniform. Dani knows that the woman has aspirations to stand before the Great Council for an election as the Diktat—to put a deeper, more permanent rubber stamp on Corellia’s rule for the Empire, as if the current Diktat had not done enough. Dani feels tears come to her eyes for her father’s world. 

The current Diktat, who had ruled Corellia since the rise of the Empire, had managed to use his relationship with former Chancellor Palpatine to keep the Imperial presence and ruling hand light—light as long as Corellia met certain requirements. Dani glances skyward, in the direction of Corellia’s vast dockyards. Dockyards that she nominally has a partial responsibility for, as a newly elected member of the Corellian Engineering Corporation’s board, with responsibility for Information and Security. She smiles slightly at the euphemisms thrown about. _Director of the Studies and Observation Group_. The same thing she had been doing for Corellian Security, with just a little bit less government authority. 

Dani’s smile fades as she returns her thoughts to the precarious situation of Corellia’s future. Something had occurred to upset the delicate balance of the Diktat’s ability to skirt full Imperial control. Something that had caused a new Imperial Advisor to be appointed, to ‘guide’ Corellia. An advisor appointed, as usual, from the ranks of the Imperial Security Bureau—a native Corellian, rumored to be related to a defunct Elder House. A woman rumored to have a connection to the remaining Elder House, albeit tenuous. 

Dani shakes her head and wipes her eyes. Her eyes move back to the dais. For a moment, she calms herself over thoughts her world’s precarious position, by allowing other senses to appraise the woman’s form in the trim uniform. A part of her heritage could see herself exercising the bottom arm of the Zeltron soul with Sal. A picture flashes in her mind of being naked with the woman, their bodies melding together, their mouths...

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, moving her thoughts away from that picture. _Well, now you’ve done it,_ she thinks. _You got yourself going, dumbass. You’ll have to do something, now. Or else everybody here will suddenly be going at it like tookas._ She closes her eyes. _There would be no connection to the mind and heart with her. It would be pure animal lust. Scratching an itch, as Bryne would call it._

Dani looks around for her ‘date’, wondering if they could make their way over to her room in the nearby Covenant House. Shyla is nowhere to be seen.

Dani closes her eyes, focusing her mind’s eye to a pinpoint. She hears the high, clear voice of Ahsoka Tano, as in her mind again, Dani sits on her knees across from her in a small cargo hold on Dani’s own ship. The ex-Jedi’s own emotions are calm. Dani is sure that she is touching that mystical partner that is she and at least three of Dani’s loved ones’ birthright. She focuses on the memory of the two lightsabers on the deck in front of her sister-of-the-heart. Dani opens her eyes, now calm. She can normally control her resonance, but events of the last year have thrown her off. The finding of those thought to be lost. The open acknowledgement of a father’s love, the re-connection of yet another thought lost—her mother. The smile fades. The loss of a job that had been her life, at least openly. Her smile returns as she sees a pair of small arms reaching up to her over solemn gray eyes.

Dani thanks the face that she sees in her mind, kneeling on the deck, calm and reassuring. The meditation techniques taught to her by the young woman had helped to center her over the last couple of months. She smiles softly as she thinks of reciprocal calming techniques she had given Ahsoka. She knows that she has reached calm when the thoughts of Delilah Sal clutching her body seem not to be reflected to everybody in the building.

“You clean up well,” she hears in a warm soprano. “Glad I got you to take a shower from your playing with balls.” Shyla Merricope hands her a Why-to—a Whyren’s and Toniray cocktail, a grin on her face. Her dark eyes appraise Dani, as Dani looks at the teal layered over amber. Dani glances over at a mirror on the wall. She sees a young woman, her purple eyes smiling in the crimson face. The young woman, who has just turned thirty, notices that her eyes have the shadows of loss and pain behind the laughter, as well as shadows of new responsibilities. Dani looks at the loose top that she wears—a black and gold trimmed cloth that only just covers the front of her torso, with a fringe hanging below that touches the black, tight trousers that hang low on her waist, held up by a belt with three thin strands of gold shot through it. She can see her bare stomach rising with her breathing.

“Thank the Omri,” she says as she takes the drink. The bubbly Alderaani wine compliments the whisky in ways she wouldn’t think possible. Still, she has to comment. “What the hell?” she says. “You gone all _cos-mo-pol-i-tan_ on us?” she asks with an exaggerated drawl, enunciating each syllable. 

Shyla joins her laughter. “I could’ve gotten Whyren’s with a water back, as the whisky gods require,” she replies in her warm soprano, “but I’ve heard that the addition of Toniray goes good with those Southshield oysters. We both know what those do.“

Dani looks into the familiar dark eyes from her youth. “Like I need any help from those,” she says. She opens her resonance a tiny bit, focusing it on the older woman. She sees the results on Shyla’s face. A face that had been locked in her mind for much of the year she had spent working closely with her. A face that had been the subject of her lust, as well as admiration, all throughout her internship in college with the Diktat—the youngest Diktat in history, originally a junior legislator from Crowneshield. She was sure that she had caught Shyla looking at her while they had worked together. Neither had acted on the looks and lust; Shyla was too dedicated and ethical for a scandal with an intern. Dani had followed her example—the example of a true mentor—her admiration had outweighed her lust.

 _Now, however_....

Dani smiles. She returns the appraising look of Shyla. Since she had been forced out as Diktat by the new order, Shyla’s dress in public had become less conservative. The business suits had given way to stylish gowns and light dresses. Dani’s eyes track downward over the revealing sundress with representations of the blue flower of the Corellian Dragonstar on an- off-white background. She realizes that Shyla is saying something. She focuses on the words.

“...I saw you looking at our Imperial Advisor. Thought you were going to turn this into an orgy that would have put the Middle Sea’s Old Kingdoms to shame.”

Dani does something she rarely does. Shyla laughs as the blush recedes. “It’s okay, sweetie.” She looks over at the dais, her eyes giving a glance to the woman’s trim form. “She knows how to use her mouth, at least. When Imperial nonsense isn’t coming out of it.” The former head of government of Corellia and by extension the Five Brothers, apparently has a sense of comic timing, as her former intern nearly chokes on her cocktail.

Dani pushes that image away for later. Shyla nods. “Come on. I think I have put in a enough of an appearance for this damned thing. Let’s go to your place. We need to talk. I think that we can probably get some other activities in, as well,” she finishes with a hooded look. The look changes to one of mischief. “You could, however, leave everybody here with a parting gift.”

Dani laughs as she opens her resonance on full, dropping her tight focus and controls. They both hear a murmur through the crowd as she and Shyla walk arm-in-arm out of the room.

~=~=~=~=~=

Ahsoka Tano watches the flickering images above the holotable. After a week in hyperspace, they had stood just outside the Ryloth system for another week, watching and waiting. She hears a noise behind her as the Captain, Tamsin walks up to her. She nods her thanks as she accepts the steaming cup of caf. She smiles at the taste, remembering days as a teenager on Republic naval vessels, standing watch with the officers. The officers and their easy humor as they gradually addicted her to the rich fragrance and taste of the hot drink, much to Anakin’s consternation. She remembers one old bosun’s mate telling her why the caf always had a dose of salt in each pot. “Tradition. In the old days, the ship’s water recyclers weren’t all that good. The caf always tasted of fuel. Salt took the taste out.” His eyes had locked with hers. “Tradition is important, Commander. Shows us where we have been, but can show us where we are going, as well. If we aren’t hidebound by it.”

Her eyes close at the memories of lessons from so many different sources. Her smile grows softer as she remembers how Anakin had finally given in. Of their shared cups of caf on the bridge of the _Resolute_ every morning, as they simply existed, waiting for what the war brought next. Sometimes Rex would join them, sometimes Yularen. She and Anakin were the constants when they were together on the ship.

She curses softly under her breath, shaking the memories away. She sees Tamsin eyeing her curiously. After a moment, the Captain looks at the projection of the harsh world. Ahsoka fights back the memories. The memories of a campaign before those shared mornings. When she had felt that her world had come crashing around her after a mistake. A mistake that had cost others their lives. 

Anakin had been gentle after his initial flare, until she had blown up at him, fearful of his recklessness, as well as hers. She had been so ashamed and afraid. Until he had given that confidence back to her, making her come up with the plan to get him out of any predicament that his plan might put him in. Her eyes tear slightly as she recites the names of the clones of her squadron in her mind. As she does every day.

“Hey, Fulcrum. Are you just going to stare those Imp ships out of existence? I know you jetti are supposed to be hot shit, but so far, I ain’t been impressed,” Tamsin says. 

Ahsoka turns, her eyes narrowing. Privately she is grateful for the intrusion into her memories of Ryloth and its painful lessons. The remnant of the snarky teenager will not let this pass without painful retaliation, however. “Smoked your tiny ass, though,” she says. 

“You sure do live on your old press clippings,” Tamsin replies. “That was close to five years ago. Don’t think it would happen again.”

“Don’t think. I know,” is all that Ahsoka says. “Besides. I am not a Jedi.” She says this last in a particular dialect of Mando’a. 

Tamsin looks about to reply, when a dry voice, in the accent of a particular region of that same world, breaks in. “Could you two please stop the foreplay and either get to the business at hand, throw down in the gym, or take it to a berth?” Drop asks. They both turn, smiling at Drop holding his hands over Talle’s ears, to her thunderous expression.

She wriggles out of his grasp. “Would you please stop that? I already know you are talking about kriffing. Give it a rest, old man.”

The three alleged adults are dumbstruck. Drop looks at Tamsin and Ahsoka. “I blame you both for this. Along with Lassa and Tehlen. I blame the lack of proper female role models.”

Talle turns to her father. “I learned that word from you. I looked it up on the holonet.”

Ahsoka grins. “Might want to look into parental controls, big guy,” she says to Tamsin’s laughter. 

Drop shakes his head. “If we are through helping my daughter bust my balls, perhaps we can examine our bigger problems? Like how the hell are we going to get close enough to the coordinates to activate that datachip.”

Ahsoka turns back to the holotank, her expression growing serious. She stares at the planet with its blockading force of large and small wedge-shaped ships, along with various support ships. 

“Do we even know if the datachip will decrypt based on location? Does the creator have to be there to provide biometrics?” Tamsin asks. 

Ahsoka shakes her head. “No. We don’t. We do know that he might be here, based on the ship identifier that we were able to get from the skin of the data.”

“Got a name?” Drop asks.

Ahsoka slumps for a moment. “No. Just ‘CO of CL 3334’. Registry says that is the _Arquitens-_ class tactical communications and command ship _Dragonsword_. Our slicers did find that the ship was docked at the Wheel around the time it, uh, came into our possession.”

“So this grifter of yours lifted it from the Imp officer on the Wheel?” Tamsin asks. “How do we know that that the Imp hasn’t remotely wiped it? Or changed the decrypt factors?”

Ahsoka shrugs. “We don’t. Just know we have to try.”

“Well, there is a bigger problem. That is a mighty big blockade to try and get to coordinates in orbit,” Drop points out.

“Yeah. I know, The sector fleet and its reinforcements have left, after the _Perilous_ went down and Cham’s movement was broken.” Ahsoka looks away. “It is only one ImpStar and a large force of smaller ships.” She stares at the display. Her eyes lock on the representation of the blockade runner, flashing green rather than red.

The green of Corellia and its Elder Family. 

Ahsoka looks at Tamsin. The Captain’s eyes widen at her expression. “I noticed when we boarded that your ship hasn’t gotten the Faithstripe painted on.” Tamsin laughs. 

“You really have been hanging around Corellians a bit much. No, we haven’t yet. Ship’s relatively new.” She grits her teeth. “I don’t like that look. What have you got in store for my ship?”

“The Imps are still using this class, right?”

“Yeah. For fast customs and interdiction work. Anti-piracy patrols. Plus ISB uses it quite a bit.”

Ahsoka allows her expression to turn slightly devilish, her sharp teeth on display in a grin. “So tell me, Tamsin. You think you could pass for an Imperial officer?”

Tamsin is thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I don’t have the regulation stick up my ass, but I could fake it.”

“That’s what I have heard about you,” Ahsoka says instinctively, before she can take the words back.

“Only with you, darling,” comes the quick retort. “One problem with this scheme of yours, Fulcrum. We don’t have an Imp ID and legend for my ship.”

“Good thing that I know some pirates and several slicers,” she say. She sees Drop’s eyeroll. “Don’t roll those jellybean eyes at me, Dropster. You’re going to contact Lassa. See if you can use your charm to get us an ID. Tell her to rendezvous with Ano.”

“Your charm might work better with her, Mouse,” he replies.

“Nope. I need to see if I can get down to Cham. Maybe he remembers what I’ve done before to not be too pissed after his organization went to shit and nobody came to help him.”

“Okay,” Drop says. “So how are we going to get on that particular cruiser?”

“Pretty sure they follow standard Imp procedure and rotate the lighter ships on outer picket duty. We may just have to watch,” Ahsoka replies. 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t solve how you get on that ship to get the Captain,” Tamsin interjects. 

“Details, sweetie,” the rebel replies. She looks at the Imperial ships on the display, then smiles. She switches her gaze to Tamsin. “You might get your wish, Captain.”

“What’s that?”

“You may get to kill me.”

Drop runs his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes, as if in pain.

 _Funny,_ Ahsoka thinks. _A number of people seem to do that a lot around me when I make plans_.

~=~=~=~=~=

Shyla Merricope watches as Dani Faygan polishes off her third cheeseburger. She smiles as she looks down at the remains of her meal, brought in from the kitchen of the CEC cantonment. Dani’s home, now, along with the little girl who is the hope of the Blackthorns’ as well as Corellia in these uncertain times. She looks down at herself. The floral sundress has been replaced with a long nightshirt with a University of Corellia at Coronet City Gamblers logo. Dani is dressed in comfortable sweats, her feet encased in large tooka slippers. 

The Hope of Corellia sits next to the demolished remnants of her own meal (with veggies abandoned, of course—having won the contest of wills on that, for now.) Her gray eyes are rapt on some animated hijinks being played on the holoscreen.

A caretaker droid sits abandoned in the corner, its photoreceptors dim. Shyla happens to catch Dani’s eye, as she watches the little girl. 

“I’m sorry, Shy,” Dani says. “I know this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind.”

Shyla waves her hand. “No matter, dear. Sometimes I need to sit in the middle of a floor and eat food that is bad for me and just relax with vintage kids’ shows. Besides,” she says, reaching out and taking Dani’s hand, “it’s worth it to see that look in your eyes. The Council was right to entrust Jamelyn to your care.”

Dani looks down, shoves at the rest of her root-fries. Shyla pulls closer and runs her thumb along the side of Dani’s lips, wiping a bit of stray sauce. Dani grins and licks the sauce from the digit, then kisses it. Her face returns to its pensive study of Snork and Doof’s antics on the screen.

“What is it, Dani?” the ex-Diktat asks.

The younger woman breaks from her reverie. She takes a deep breath. She looks at Jamelyn, then lowers her voice. “I love her. I love being around her. But I feel that I might be cheating her, if I’m out there fighting the good fight, with people who depend on me.”

Shyla nods, thoughtful. After a moment, she looks at the little girl. “I can’t presume to give you advice, Dani. I never had children.” She closes her eyes at the slight fiction. “But don’t think that you have to give up one set of skills for Corellia because you have others. The Five Brothers will need all of them, if we are to get out of this mess.”

Dani is quiet. Shlya continues, “You’re a good fighter, but you also understand and love people. We need both. You may have to use both skills with this little heartbreaker.” At that, she throws a balled up napkin at Jamelyn, eliciting a dark look, a look that relaxes when Shyla sticks her tongue out at her. Jamelyn giggles and abandons the holoscreen. She runs over and tackles Shyla. The three women’s laughter rises as both the oldest and the youngest begin an intense tickling campaign. 

When Jamelyn runs down, Dani gets up. “Time for a bath, my girl. Then bed. You’ve stayed up past your bedtime.” Shyla sees the girl’s feet lock to the deck as her arms cross her chest, to the eyeroll from Dani. “Unstick those feet. I see you have been around your Uncle Bryne too much. It won’t work on me, just like his didn’t work with his hunt-mother. You’re not quite the Elector, yet.” She lifts the girl up, suddenly flipping her where she hangs upside down.

Shyla can only hope that the little girl doesn’t expel her dinner on the ground with the sudden movement. She needn’t have worried. The little girl manages to flip up to Dani’s shoulders, with athletic grace. She sees a gleam in Dani’s eye. “Come on. If you’re good, I’ll give you some ice cream, then you’ll be Uncle Draq’s problem. It’ll be my revenge for him filling you up with sugar and giving you back to me.”

She looks at Shyla before she leaves. Her eyes flash black for a moment. “I’ll be back for our ‘consultations’, your Excellency,” she says. “Try and keep it warm for me.”

Shyla grins as she begins to clean up the remains of the meals.

~=~=~=~=~=

Delilah Sal stretches and cracks her neck as the elevator climbs to her private quarters in the Imperial Complex. She stares at the expressionless black visor of her personal Deathtrooper. He stares straight ahead. She sighs and turns to the door as it opens. The trooper positions himself at the elevator door. 

Delilah opens her tunic and pulls it off, dropping it on the tiled floor of the foyer. She turns and looks challengingly at the Deathtrooper. She is bare beneath the tunic. The trooper continues to stare straight ahead. Sal rolls her eyes, as she picks up the robe where it had been left by the servitor droid and pulls it on, not bothering to belt it, as she toes off her boots, and then drops her trousers on the floor as she walks into the sitting room.

The Advisor slumps in a chair, pulling her bare feet under her. Her dark eyes flash with fire as she remembers her conversation with the current Diktat at her afternoon audience.

~=~=~=~=~=

Sal stared at the square-jawed features of Dupas Thomree, elected Diktat of Corellia. The pleasant smile, that seemed to always be plastered on his face, had hardened a bit. 

“No, Delilah. I don’t care what your opinion is. Draq’ Bel Iblis is a major reason why Corellia is stable and prosperous. His leadership as Procurator, as well as his ability to craft deals that consistently create a better standard of living for our people.”

“Your Excellency, he is against Imperial order. The Emperor feels....,”

He had held up his manicured hand. “Really, Delilah? Because I am close to the Emperor. He has other issues that he has to deal with that are more urgent than what is going on here.” His blue eyes narrowed. “Is it really the problem that the Emperor has with him, or the ones you and your late mother had with him? Your whispering into Tarkin and Isard’s ears.”

She stared at him. “I am a loyal servant of the Emperor. I would never put personal issues above my duty,” she said airily.

His smiled turned into a wolfish grin. “My dear, you and I are politicians. You have been since birth. Draq’ Bel Iblis is only a servant of Corellia. He will remain as Procurator and as Chair of CEC.”

After a moment, she nodded. She lifted her hand to his chest. “Can I see you tonight?” she asked. 

He smiled and reached down, giving her a brief kiss. “No. I have a meeting tonight.” His eyes turned hard again. “You should get some rest. You have a meeting tomorrow morning at the ninth hour at the Palace.”

Her eyes grew curious. “With who?”

“Draq’ Bel Iblis. I arranged it so you could free yourselves from the pissing contest of making each other wait.” He quelled her rising protest with a look. “No. Be there. He may be a pain in the ass, and he hates my guts as an Imperial stooge with every fiber of his being, but he serves Corellia.”

He kissed her again and turns, leaving her quivering with anger.

~=~=~=~=~=

Delilah is torn from her reverie by a noise in the antechamber. She walks out. Her eyes widen as she sees the trooper remove the helmet and drop it on the floor. 

A green, high-cheekboned face stares out at her through intense, otherworldly blue eyes. Low ridges decorate the skull, next to a high tuft of red hair that is springing back after confinement in the helmet. 

Tera Moj, Sub-Vigo of Prince Xizor, and beloved sister of the underlord of Black Sun, Xiton Moj, stares at her. “I did appreciate the show, dear,” she says in her even voice. She bows to Delilah. “I bring you the greetings of Black Sun. My lord Prince wishes an update on our little joint project.”

In spite of her disquiet, Delilah stands tall and defiant. “It’s moving as fast as it can. I thought you didn’t want too much attention.”

The Falleen warrior smiles. It is not a pleasant expression. “Perhaps. But my Prince is not a patient man. We might need to make some examples.” She looks thoughtful, or at least what Delilah thinks is thoughtful. “Perhaps taking the child will do. The Heir to the throne is always a good pawn and incentive.”

In spite of her Imperial training, Delilah feels herself growing cold. She notices that Tera is removing her armor. 

“Come. I need sleep. Perhaps you can entertain me, as you have before, my dear,” she says. 

Delilah wonders what sort of bargain her mother had made with this particular devil, as the pheremones, a chemical on par with or greater than anything Faygan’s resonance had produced, assaults her center. She follows her devil into the bedspace.

~=~=~=~=~=

Dani opens her eyes in the dim light of a Corellian dawn. Her brain takes only a moment to remember where she is and who she is with, as she feels the slight weight on her belly and lower. She smiles as she feels the slight rhythmic breaths wisping through the curls that part of the weight rests against.

She lifts her hand from the bed and runs her fingers through the short, now messy mop of brown hair. Dani feels her lover stirring. Her hand moves down over the pale skin of the ex-Diktat’s shoulders. She grins ruefully as her hands play over the scratches. She moves her own shoulders against the cotton sheets, feeling the tiny bit of pull on her own slight wounds from the night before.

Shyla sits up, a crooked smile on her lips. She stretches, causing Dani’s breath to catch. 

“Morning,” Dani says. 

The formerly most powerful woman in the sector mutters something incomprehensible as her eyes close in mid-stretch. Apparently the wakefulness does not extend to the speech centers.

Now that her legs are freed, Dani swings them out of the bed. She reaches down as she stands and kisses Shyla. “I’m going to fix some caf, so we can talk before Jamelyn gets up. I like to have breakfast with her when I can.” She smiles, holding her fingers on the older woman’s chin. “You can join us if you like. I think she really enjoyed your company.” The smile turns slightly devilish. “Kinda did, myself.”

She turns and lifts up a flannel shirt. Before the garment pulls up and covers her back, Shyla reaches up and encircles her middle, leaving her lips against Dani’s bare back.

Dani closes her eyes as she feels warm lips playing over the lightsaber scar. She drops her hands on to Shyla’s. After a moment, Shy pulls her arms from Dani’s middle.

Dani feels Shy’s hands moving over her bare back, with her lips. She starts as the woman’s nails ghost over the jagged scar on her back.

“Every time I touch this, either with my hands or my lips, I wish that I could take it away, Dani,” Merricope says quietly.

Dani is quiet. She turns to face the politician, pulling the shirt up, but leaving it open. “I know, Shyla. But I wouldn’t. It’s part of me. That cut made me who I am.” She allows her lips to play over the former Diktat’s neck. “I met the woman who gave it to me, later in the war. We fought as allies. While we didn’t kiss and make up, we came to an understanding. The scar reminds me of many things. Not just the pain. It reminds me of my father—of saving his life. It reminds me of my duty to my worlds.”

She looks away, fighting the tears in her eyes. She tries to ignore the raw pain and sympathy on Shyla’s face. “It reminds me of the first time that I actually loved someone as a bond—of her life and her loss.” Dani sees that heart-bond’s face in her memory—smiling with love.

Shyla’s own eyes are tearing as she rests her forehead on Dani’s. 

After a moment, Dani pulls away. “Lay back down. I would probably rather fuck you a bit more than talk Corellian politics, but I promised someone that I would ask some questions.”

Shyla rolls her eyes. “Damned old bastard. Still shitting all over my plans.”

Dani’s laughter is musical as she leaves for the kitchen. 

~=~=~=~=~=

Shyla lays back, not bothering with dressing. She smiles as she thinks of the night before. The entire night, just not the later hours. Of watching Dani and the young girl who was now her focus—focus even while continuing to fight the fight against the Empire; attempting to restore the light. Shyla knows that she is only an ancillary part of this initiative. She can only advise, after the falling out with her mentor. The man who had given her the opportunity to lead. The now-acknowledged father of her night’s lover. 

Draq’ Bel Iblis.

She starts as the door opens again. She curses as the man whose name is on her mind stands in the door. She manages to pull the sheet up over her breasts.

She tries to read his look. Tries and fails. His lips quirk up. “Hello, dear. Don’t worry. I am not going to ask your intentions with my daughter. You’re both adults and probably among the small numbers of people who I trust implicitly.” His smile fades as he gives her a low-intensity Dragon look. “Although you, a little less than her.”

He picks up the nightshirt, discarded on the floor and tosses it to her. “Come on. Got coffee all ready. Dani’s already there. We need to talk about things.”

~=~=~=~=~=

Draq’ watches as the two women laugh. He tunes back into the conversation at their joy. He sips his own caf, allowing them their moments.

He sees Dani’s touch of Shyla’s arm. “According to the holosheets,” she says, “you’ve been seeing a bit of activity.”

Shyla makes a derisive noise. “Can’t believe everything you read. Only met your cousin a few times. Had a nice ride one night.”

Dani sits up, looking amazed. “I thought it was just a fiction created for his image.”

“Who do you think suggested the fiction to the Dragon?” Shyla says, looking at Draq’. He takes another sip. 

“I thought you weren’t speaking this month,” Dani says dryly, her eyes narrowing at her father.

Shyla holds up her hands. “We’ve been talking a tiny bit about what is going on. We even talked about you.”

“Yeah? What did you talk about?” the young woman asks, looking from Shyla to Draq’.

“Oh, the usual. How proud he is of you. How he hurts for you. How he hurts for the Covenant and someone else, that he won’t name.”

Draq’ finally cuts in. “ _He’s_ sitting right here,” he says pointedly.

Dani stands and walks over to where he sits in the opposite chair. She encircles his neck, her lips against his stubbly cheek, the flannel of the shirt she wears soft against his skin. He looks over at Shyla, whose eyes are moist.

Dani sits on the arm of his chair. “Why did you two have a falling out? I remember you talking about each other so much when I worked for her, about how great you both were as leaders. Then....nothing. Nothing but angry silence.”

Shyla looks him in the eyes. He looks away. She turns and focuses on Dani’s face. “I pushed him away after I was recalled by the Great Council. I felt like I failed him. Especially since he had fought me on appointing Dupas Thomree as Pretat—the second. It turns out that he was right; that Thomree was the snake in the grass.”

Dani looks down at Draq’. He stares at Shyla. “I didn’t know. Shyla. I felt like I failed you. Failed you as a member of your Privy Council. Failed you as your so-called mentor.” He looks away. Focusing on his caf cup. “I thought he was a snake, but I couldn’t figure out his game. I didn’t recognize he was so close to the Chancellor.”

Dani looks at them both. “I think both of y’all are two goddamned stubborn peas in a pod. Neither of you willing to speak to one another to talk through this. To find a solution.”

She kisses Draq’ again, pulling him tight. He feels tears forming in his own eyes. “Maybe it is what I am for. One who loves both of you, for different reasons. I guess that’s my place.”

“Maybe so, love,” her _abeeyah_ says. “But you are so much more, Daaineran.”

“On that we can agree, Draq’,” Shyla says. 

Dani breaks free and returns to the couch. She pulls close to Shyla. The ex-Diktat leans into her. She looks at Draq’. “So do you think Delilah is pulling something like Dupas did with me? Undermining him with the GC?” she asks, referring to the body that elects and recalls the Diktat.

He is thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know. It just feels like something else is at play. It seems like she has more animus for me, than him. I think she is trying to get to him through me.” His expression hardens. “We’ll have our mandated hour-long peacemaking session at the ninth hour. We’ll probably both sit there and stare at each other. The Diktat may be attending the next one.”

Shyla and Dani grin at the image. “I think you’re right about the Council. Between you and Garm, as well as Shavuot Colum, there is plenty of respect on the Council for the three of you. Too many people are at least comfortable with the status quo that he represents, rather than the tighter Imperial control she does.” She smiles tightly. “Plus, she’s her mother’s daughter. A lot of people were burned by the Hag when she was alive.”

“Is she banking on the Emperor supporting her?” Dani asks. “Over Thomree? They were tight when he was Supreme Chancellor. Especially when Thomree helped wrangle the votes as a very young Senate staffer for Amedda”

Draq’ growls. “This is especially galling when Corellia openly supported Bail Antilles for Chancellor.” He shakes his head as he calms. “No. I don’t think so. I’m sure that there are people who want me out. They might persuade the Emperor to back her. Especially the Intelligence and Security cabal.”

They are all silent as they digest this. Draq’ sees Dani grin mischievously, breaking the mood.

“So, Shyla. Our Covenant. How was he? I’ve a lot banking on this, seeing that I taught him everything he knows.”

Shyla giggles at what Draq’ is sure is an uncomfortable expression on his face. “You can be proud. He knows his way around a...,” she starts until a cleared throat halts her thought.

“Really? I have to listen to this about my nephew, in a conversation instigated by my daughter?”

Shyla trades a look with Dani. “I was going to say a dinner conversation, Dragon. Where is your mind?” She softens, looking out the window. “I had fun. He listens well, is very funny. He knows that this was for the stage, but he never acted. He is so....” She searches for the right word. 

“Genuine,” she finishes.

Draq’ watches as Dani closes her eyes. “Yes, he is,” she whispers. Draq’s eyes suddenly have dust in them again.

He glimpses another mischievous grin forming on both faces. “He knows how to use his cock, as well,” Shyla says, her grin pointed in his direction. 

Draq’ is saved by the door opening. A small blur rushes in, clad in a nightgown.

Jamelyn, Elector-Presumptive of Corellia, leaps into her guardian’s arms. Dani smothers her cheeks with kisses. Draq’ notices Shyla looking at the two. She sees him watching her, smiles and nods at him.

“I’m taking the rugrat to get some kibble,” Dani says to a giggle from the wriggling figure in her arms. “I know you both have something else to talk about. Something above my clearance.” 

Both start to protest. She holds up a crimson hand, as she lets Jamelyn down. The little girl moves over to her grand-uncle, embracing him tightly.

Draq’ looks up, just in time to see Dani kiss Shyla and hold it for several moments, her hand on the politician’s cheek. He closes his eyes as his mind sees Dani looking up a serene Togruta huntress, her eyes shining. He remembers the same light in the eye of the huntress as she looked down at his daughter.

As Dani and Jamelyn leave, he gets up and walks over to the couch. He sits down next to her. 

“The Katana Project.”

Shyla sighs. After a moment she nods. 

“It’s not what you think Dragon. I wasn’t war profiteering, even though, as you know, we were still selling to the Republic mostly, since CEC was exempt.”

Draq’ sits, waiting patiently. She takes a sip of her caf, makes a face at the coldness.

“I felt like things were spiraling out of control. That we were going to get drawn in. I thought that we might need a fallback.”

“How did you do it? Especially without me knowing?”

“I had Garm approve the moves, as a member of CEC’s governing board. We held back one frigate’s worth of funds per month from the profits, purchased one a month from Kuat for two years. They actually gave us five extra. Not just frigates, either. Five off-the-books _Venators_.”

His eyes widen briefly at the casual mention of five capital ships included in the mix. The piercing blue eyes then flash in anger. “So my own son knew?” he spits out.

She touches his arm, sliding down and taking his big hand in both of hers. “We came up with the idea in the discussion of the meditative contemplation. The neutrality. We decided to keep it to ourselves, as it looked like we were skimming funds personal profit.” She grins. “Not always a frowned upon practice on Corellia, but we didn’t want you hurt.”

He calms. “Okay. Where the hell are they?”

She looks away. “Don’t know. Computer randomly selected coordinates, then Kuat dumped them there. Only the Diktat’s key can reveal them. Something I don’t have anymore.”

They are both silent as they contemplate the possibilities.


	8. Meglann: And Awe was all we could feel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Come win your world at Victe’s Place! Our tables have more winners than the skies of Ganthel’s Pryde-plains have stars! Our food is known the world over. Our friendly and welcoming staff will provide anything that you need!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Mr. Gordo welcomes you to his tables—be it for food, be it for gaming._
> 
>  
> 
> _Victe’s. Our winners never sleep!_
> 
>  
> 
> Brochure for Victe’s Casino and Restaurant. A Subsidiary of Gordo Enterprises, Ltd.

Meglann rests her head against the wall of the small storage room; her home for the last two weeks or so. She closes her eyes as she thinks that she has done something that she had sworn that she would never do since being captured and brought here.

She has lost her sense of time. Only the tiny marks that she has scratched into the wall give her any indication of how many days she has been in this tiny space. 

“Hey, Meg-lann. You need to stay stop making those marks. The days will come and go. One day you’ll wake up and you’ll be free,” says her companion, with a sharp-toothed smile. 

Fit gets up from where he is mending a pair of trousers and moves closer to her. He raises his brows in an approximation of a curious look on a human. His careful smile remains fixed in his blue features as he sits next to her. He moves closer to her, taking care to only touch his arm against hers, as if to maintain the equilibrium in their living quarters. The equilibrium of friendship.

He doesn’t ask what she does under the blanket, as her hands move back and forth. It is better that he doesn’t know, especially since her hands seem to be moving around her ankle and its forbidden control device. He doesn’t know, just as he is careful not to see the purloined steak knife that she carefully hides under a loose floorboard every night. She sees him involuntarily cover his pointed ears, as if already hearing her screams from the ‘conditioning’ session, if the blade, now bent with its work, was found. She rests her head against his bare arm, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. He is probably hearing his own screams as well, for not turning her in. _Or thinking about the alternative_ , she thinks, _for him._

Fit puts down his mending, then pulls her close to him. It had only taken a few days for him to warm up to her, sharing his precious space with her, rather than making her sleep on the cold floor of the corridor. She smiles. There had been no price exacted, especially when she had shown plenty of inclination to hold him when the nightmares came, for which he had reciprocated, except shared conversation about anything and everything. Her life outside of this one. Stories of her friends. She had realized that he was starved for these stories, as he had been born here and was serving out his parents’ indentures. Fourteen years of theirs, plus six extra of his own for escape attempts; he had known no other life except this one. Fitanzujua’taro would probably know no other life than that as a dishwasher at this shitty restaurant. 

“Fit, you promised to tell me how this whole indentured servitude thing started,” she says, as she continues her work. He releases her, then picks up his trousers. He is silent. She marvels at the strength that he shows. He is at least a couple of years younger than she is, but with so much more life experience.

“I know, Meg-lann,” he says in his mix of accents. He had not really grown up among his people, his parents having died when he was young, so he had not inherited just their musical Ryl speech patterns. “I think that it all started because the prisons got overcrowded. A chieftain from many years ago decided to create the indentures system. It was a small program, and the indentures were able to learn skills they wouldn’t learn in prison. 

“But, within a few years, it was being used for many things. Debts. Settling of scores. The substitution system started for those who attempted to speak out, or even help indentures attempt to escape.” He looks at her directly. “The Industrial-Prydes perpetuated it, as industrialization grew. It became next to impossible to get out of it.” He pauses, taking a sip of water.

“I think that the current chieftain would like to end it, but he’s not been seen since the Empire came. His daughter, who will succeed him as Conyl—the chieftain—is our Senator. From what I hear, she’s trying to solve the problem in the Imperial Senate, just as she tried in the Republic. She’s young, but respected by other Senators for her work. I don’t think our new Imperial Advisor wants to end it. The Empire’s benefitting from labor levies among the indentures. There are rumors of another levy going offworld for a big construction project.” His features grow dark. “It allows them the pretense of banning slavery in the Core, while continuing it with another name.”

Meglann tries not to let her amazement show at the knowledge from one so young. He notices her expression, grins sheepishly. “Not much else to do here. I listen. I don’t know how to read, except that tiny bit you have been teaching me. I listen and I think about these things.”

The lights flicker. “Time for bed, Meg—lann.” She had shared her real name with him. He is careful to only whisper it. He reaches up and touches her face. “Please be careful with what you are doing under that blanket. I don’t you to wind up like me. I am only one attempt away from having my throat cut or a blaster bolt in my head from Gordo.” 

She starts to protest, then thinks better of it. They both prepare for bed. As was their custom, Meglann takes him in her arms and lies against his back, sharing their warmth and her comfort. As she feels his lekku twitch against her front as he falls asleep, she tries not to think of similar sensations from another, with only one lek in the rear, as she held her against the night.

~=~=~=~=~=

The man once known as Dav Kolan, but now without a name, palms open the door to his small hostel room. His hand immediately goes to the small blaster concealed under his coat, as a tiny noise comes from the partitioned bed area. He walks in, locking the door behind him, making sure that the extra safeguards are in place. _Apparently they didn’t stop someone_ , he thinks.

An observer would notice his nonchalant walk. _Always let things happen around you, not to you,_ comes to his mind, from a long-ago mentor. His expression darkens as he thinks of that mentor and what his true motivations were. He rolls his eyes as he walks behind the partition and stops. He takes his jacket off, pulling the blaster holster off as well.

Bryne Covenant sits in a chair next to the bed. Kolan looks at this hands; sees nothing but a datapad in one of them. His eyes track down and see Covenant’s boots and socks next to the chair. His gunbelt is in easy reach of the night-table, its large blaster loose in the holster. Kolan smirks as he sees the small tin lying next to the weapon, along with a pocket flask. Covenant lounges easily in the chair, reading that datapad.

“So, what do I owe this dubious pleasure, King? Your lovely Togruta’s winning personality finally get to you?”

Covenant grins. “No. Just in the area and thought I might rock your world.” His look softens. “Thought you might need it after you died. Been dead before, myself.”

Kolan looks away. “It’s not so bad. I get to spend time with someone who matters.” He moves to the chair. His hand reaches out, moves in the open shirt, resting against Covenant’s bare chest, touching the small symbol and the tooth. “Don’t need your pity, though.”

Covenant grins again. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just thought you needed some of my awesomeness.” 

Dav laughs and reaches down. He kisses Covenant, their tongues meeting. He touches the tooth again. “How does Ahsoka feel about this?”

“She is okay. I don’t conceal anything from her.”

“Let me guess. She asked that you dip in bacta, afterwards.”

“Nope. Just a shower,” Covenant says with a grin. His eyes widen as he sees that somehow Kolan’s boots and socks are already off. “What about Dek?” he asks. 

“Dek would like me to bring you to our bed. He has some notion of variety. I told him that the boredom is just bearable. 

Both men are silent as their lips meld again. 

Later, they both lie naked on their sides, facing each other, their skin touching as their breathing calms. “So why are you really here, King? You can tell Ahsoka that I will keep both of your secrets, but I won’t join your little play-circle. I’m not sure that one side is any better than another.” He kisses Bryne. “Maybe the people are a bit better.”

He sees Covenant smile. “Yeah. Maybe.” Covenant pushes him away and gets up. Kolan watches him appreciatively as he walks to the pile of clothes. He pulls the datapad and returns to the bed. Kolan pulls him to the crook of his arm. He feels his blood run cold at the picture on the screen.

Kolan nods. “Yeah. That’s Secor. The shorter one. I don’t know the other one. He looks at the datestamp. “Before my time.” He looks closer at the woman. “Is that your diner-owner? I’ve only seen her once.”

“No. That’s her mother,” Bryne says. “Look, I’m not doing this for that little group you mentioned. That woman’s daughter means a lot to Ahsoka and me, personally. You heard what happened. I just want to make sure she’s okay.” He looks down. “Is it possible that she’s Secor’s daughter?”

Kolan stops for a moment. “It’s possible. But he’d do it as a sense of power and possession. ” 

“Would’ve he have forced himself on her mother?” 

Kolan’s answer is immediate. “No. He’s more manipulative, than anything else. The Judicials were small, and some would say ineffective, but the instances of corruption and criminal behavior were low. They wouldn’t have tolerated an out and out rapist.” He rests his head against Covenant. “Or at least the man I thought I knew in the beginning wouldn’t. That man wouldn’t have done anything so wrong and dishonorable.” He shakes his head. “He manipulates, though. Did it to me. I guess you don’t truly know someone.”

Covenant grins. “Yeah. I guess you don’t.” His eyes darken. “As far as the Judicials go, I only met a few. They seemed to be decent sorts. They were trying to fill the gaps of what the Jedi were failing to do. Of course, lot of Imperial bigwigs used to be Judicials. Tarkin. Secor. Yularen.” He looks down. “I came close to loving one—or at least an ex-Judicial during the War.”

Kolan’s eyes narrow, then smile. “Jana Sloane.”

Covenant looks at him, then away. He nods. 

“I saw you, then.” Kolan says. “On Coruscant for her funeral. She was the closest damned thing that I had to a sister.” He looks up, his eyes sharp with realization. “You were the stormtrooper on the RMSU. The one who handed her little sister to me.”

Covenant smiles. “Yeah. I was. I just hope that I don’t ever regret not killing her.”

Kolan smiles. “I don’t think you will, King. But who am I to say? I thought Jano Secor was an honorable man.”

He allows his lips to move over Covenant’s chest again. He feels Covenant’s hand trace down his body to his center. He manages to keep the gasp from his voice as Bryne grasps and strokes him. “What else do you need from me, King? You do understand that this is just lust, right?” the former ISB agent asks.

Covenant is silent for a moment. “I do. I think that Dek is good for you.” He pauses, as if gathering herself. “Nola’s going to stay here, with a source. I’m heading on to Raxus on the off chance that I might be able find something, since we have traced Meglann there. I need someone to watch her back.” He takes a deep breath. “There are some things going down on Alderaan that might lead her to be in danger.”

Kolan recalls a moment in the recent past. Of a young Naboo closing his hand over a new life on a datachip, after his old one had exploded so spectacularly on an Imperial Stardestroyer. _Find Dek, Trigger_ , she had said. _Find a life, out of this._ “I do owe her. I can watch her back. Maybe help her nose around.” A memory stirs from the past. “But we might start with a name,” he finishes.

“I appreciate it, Trigger,” Bryne says. “What name?”

“When I served as Yularen’s flag lieutenant during the Umbara campaign, an Umbaran showed up with Secor’s bonafides. Said he was an ‘expert’ on Umbara.” He grins. “Yularen sent him packing. I think that at the very least, he was an opportunist, playing both sides for money, but I think back, I’m sure he might have been a Seppie, with connections to the Zygerrian slavers that Skywalker, Kenobi, and Koon broke up.”

Bryne smiles. “Ahsoka was there, too. Rescued a good number of her people that the Seps had snatched and sold to them on a colony.”

Kolan watches him grow serious as his hand moves on him. Kolan tries to breathe, succeeds, then makes sure that his own hand moves down to Covenant’s middle.

“So where can we find him?” Bryne asks, his voice even. 

“He has connections to Raxus, as a broker for bounty hunters. He also owns a shitty restaurant/casino on Ganthel.”

Bryne grins. “Lot of that going around,” he says. 

They are silent again as they kiss. Finally, Covenant breaks away. He looks at Kolan as Kolan moves on top of him. “I think that I’ll check with Nola to see if there is anything else she can get on Bothuwui. If not, we’ll both go to Raxus and see what we can figure out. If you can, head to Ganthel to the restaurant and nose around.”

Kolan nods. His expression grows mischievous as he feels their centers touch. Kolan begins to kiss his way down Covenant’s body. “You wanna see if you can make it worth my while, before a little sleep? Then we can get your huntress’s shower, so you won’t get your permission slip taken away.”

~=~=~=~=~=

Nola looks up from her datapad as Boge walks into the room “Hey, your Grace. Got a visitor.”

“I’ve told to stop calling me that, Boge,” she says as she rises, lessening the sting of her tone with a smile. 

“Sorry. Ingrained habit,” he says. “He says he’s your bartender.”

Nola’s smile grows wider. Boge nods as Selda walks into the room with his shuffling gait. She walks over and hugs him. “I’m sorry, Selda. Did the Imperials give you much trouble?” 

He returns her embrace. “No. They gave Krtsador a lot more.” He grins. “Good thing I texted the garrison when I did.”

She looks down. “Thanks, Selda. I appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure. I owe a lot to our mutual friend.”

Nola notices that Boge has left the lounge, leaving them alone. She picks up the carafe. “You want some caf? My partners in crime are all ex-cops. They tend to live on it,” she finishes. 

“Never touch the stuff.” His scarred face goes serious. “I have some news on that information that your friend dug up from his friend.”

“Not sure we would call him a friend, but what did you find?”

“Gordo’s on Ganthel at his restaurant. He has had some labor issues lately. Some folks that back him are getting a bit tired of the way he deals with them.” He grins. “Certain reptilians with planet-sized libidos, pheromones, and a murderous way of dealing with issues.”

Nola raises her eyebrows. “Falleen? Black Sun?”

He nods, his still-whole lek twitching. “Yes. He might be playing all sides against each other.”

She is quiet for a moment. “He apparently has a history of that. Between the Seps and the Republic in the war.”

“That is the other thing. My sources tell me that he never registered as a former Separatist with the Empire. Could be a problem for him.”

Nola is silent as she thinks. “No. I know that might be a problem for him, if he gives us trouble.” She sees him grin at her directness. “We might be able to use it, but I gotta figure something out.”

Selda’s eyes bore into her as she finishes. She looks away. 

“There is still the matter of the bounty on you. I know you’ve been holed up here, but if you go to Raxus and start dealing with a bounty hunter broker, you might have some problems.”

She feels her anger rising. “You let me worry about that, old man. Getting our friend back is the most important thing right now. My problems are secondary.”

“Well, when you get through martyring yourself, maybe you’ll realize that to your friends, you aren’t secondary.”

She stands up, her fists clenched. A familiar voice breaks into her anger. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same goddamned thing,” Covenant says. 

She turns. Selda moves up beside her. Nola sees his eyes light on the teeth on Bryne’s gunbelt.

“Lot of martyrdom going on,” she says, looking at Covenant. She closes her eyes. She feels Selda’s flesh-and-blood hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Selda. My sparkling personality strikes again.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Nola. You’re dear to someone who is dear to me, so you’re dear to me.” He looks at Covenant, pointing with his artificial arm at the teeth. “Someone who has a headdress much like that.” He smiles. “I think that you might be dear to her as well, hunter,” he finishes. 

“Some days,” Covenant replies. “I think we need to head to Raxus, No-no,” he says. “But I have to make a detour. I’ll take the A-wing. I’ve been wanting to test it out.” He moves closer to Nola, taking her in his arms. “I’ll see you in a week or so.”

She touches his cheek, eyeing him with suspicion. “Don’t shut me out, Bryne,” she says quietly. 

He pulls her towards him and kisses her gently. “Wouldn’t think of it, Last Word. But I’m going to see what I can do about this damned bounty. If you get to Raxus and I’m not there, just observe, Nola.”

She nods and then returns his kiss. He rests his head on her shoulder for a moment. When he breaks away he turns and shakes Selda’s left hand. “She told me some of what happened on Raada. I’d like to sit down in your bar someday and talk about what she was like during that time. I just knew her before and after.” He doesn’t have to specify who ‘she’ is to any of them.

Selda grins. “Then you have the advantage, hunter. I don’t think anyone on Raada really knew Ahsoka,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Covenant nods and exits the lounge. Nola watches him go.


	9. ‘A Thousand Times Thee Nay.’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sheer amount of risks that the first Fulcrum took in the early days was staggering. Many of the stories about her from the few who knew her are mainly anecdotal, as she didn’t keep records. Only the addition of the Tempest cell, about four years into her operations, as her ‘tip of the spear’ ensured that her stories would be preserved._
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> _Her risks, however, all had some amount of calculation—of planning. This calculation grew in her later years—either a sign of maturity or of outside influences._
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> Excerpt from Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest, Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

Ahsoka curses as her montrals, engulfed by the unfamiliar helmet, strike the light transparisteel of the canopy. She shifts her ass to combat the numbness from four hours in a cramped V-wing cockpit. 

_These damned things were barely meant to fit clones in them, much less a growing Togruta with montrals,_ she thinks. _Plus I could do without the new and exciting adventure of having to wear a pressure suit in a fighter_. Fortunately, one of Tamsin’s crew had been able to adapt the Imperial helmet that had come with the purloined ship in the _Hope’s_ hold. She tried not to think of where the dark stains had come from on the patched flight suit, or whether the flight suit would hold up to what she was about to do.

When contacted, a surly, disguised voice had told them that they would have to find a way to the surface to certain coordinates with a certain recognition frequency. Hence, Tamsin’s brilliant idea of using an Imperial _Vev_ with its transponders turned off. The blockade ships, according to smuggler’s reports, were hampered by the remaining wreckage of the Emperor’s stardestroyer, the _Perilous,_ parts of which were still raining down on Ryloth’s surface. A ship this small would probably make it to orbit undetected, but no further into the atmosphere, which was monitored tightly for ships. _Which is where the next part of this stupid-ass maneuver comes in_. A harsh beep from the Q7 astromech chassis fitted behind the cockpit tells her that it is time.

“Okay, Q,” she says into the helmet’s pickup. She feels the controls go slack as the astromech takes control. She takes a deep breath and reaches down between her legs. Her hand touches and grasps the grip of the ejection handle. She begins to feel the bump of the upper atmosphere. She waits until the vibrations come faster; for the fighter to get just a bit deeper into the soup.

_There._

Ahsoka squeezes the handle’s grip safety and pulls upward. She feels the lag, then the explosive charge as the seat propels her up through the canopy as its own charges shatter it. _Oh yeah. Cost-saving measure. Less money to break the damned thing, rather than pay for the charges to throw it clear._

She shakes her head, clearing it of the cobwebs as the heat shield deploys around her. The fall into the gravity well would be too high for the bounce mode alone of the sphere. Her stomach lurches as the shuddering stops and the pod starts to plummet. 

And plummet. Hopefully mimicking a free-falling piece of junk.

_Okay. You can kick in at any time._

The pod compresses around Ahsoka, forcing the blood where it is supposed to be as the braking thrusters that are fitted on the bottom of the seat fire. She feels bile rise in her throat at the rapid deceleration. _No. Check that. The hitting of the brick wall._ She forces the bile back down, knowing that vomiting in her helmet could cause her to choke to death. Ahsoka feels another thump after several moments, of the drogue chute, then the main chute dragging the ball to a further slowing.

“Okay, here comes the really shitty part,” she says to herself. The sphere strikes the ground, jarring her teeth. She tastes blood as she bites her tongue, fortunately not with her sharp incisors. It only takes ten more of the same bounces, before it starts a stomach-churning roll. She takes a deep breath as it stops. The hatch pops open. She manages to unsnap the harness and shakily climb from the seat. 

She falls from the pod with less grace, landing on her face. With habit ingrained from training, she samples the atmosphere to be sure she hasn’t landed somewhere other than where she had intended. 

Her shaking hands manage to unsnap the helmet and drop it. She takes deep breaths of the dry air that she remembers so well, from her brief visit nearly a decade ago.

Ahsoka Tano has returned to Ryloth. Her Force-sense screams with warning. She hears the sounds of blasters being cocked.

“Freeze,” says a modulated voice.

She closes her eyes. Apparently she has returned right into the hands of the Empire.

 _If I get out of this, I wonder if Talle will help me hide Tamsin’s body_ , she thinks as she places her hands behind her montrals.

She looks at the four stormtroopers, wondering if she can take them in her current discombobulated state. The stormtrooper with the black pauldron of a Sergeant walks up to her.  
“Looks like we’ve caught a spy,” he says. “Don’t know of any tailheads in Imperial uniform.”

He turns to the others. “We don’t have time to take a prisoner.” He steps away from her, raising his blaster. “Prepare to fire. ISB will collect the corpse for its investigations.”

 _I am getting very tired of being in this position_. She snaps both hands down quickly and pushes outward. The four troopers go flying back into the rock wall with a sickening crunch. She lifts them again and smashes them again. All four sag.

“Guess you didn’t read the SOP on executing rebel spies, boys,” she says, a Smirk on her face. “You’re supposed to put them against the wall, not stand against it yourselves.” Another few swipes of the Force, and the actuator-pins, comms, and helmet-cams make noises they don’t make in nature. She sits down, her head spinning from the trip that she had just made as a piece of space-junk, coupled with the Force use. She knows that she needs to get away from the landing site, after her encounter with the patrol, but she can barely move. 

As her Force-sense begins to clear from the effort, she jumps up and whirls.

Four Twi’leks watch her, one mounted on a large cross between a bantha and a snake. A _blurrg_ , some part of her brain remembers. Another has closed to within half a meter. She curses under her breath as she thinks of how she has allowed her focus to slip. She paints what she hopes is her most reassuring smile on her face. “Hello, gang. I’m here to see your boss—,” she starts. 

Everything goes dark as the nearest fighter swings his rifle butt.

 _Nope_ , is her last thought. _Don’t care about hiding the body._

~=~=~=~=~=

The bounty hunter watches his fellows from the shadows as they crowd around the holonet, anxiously awaiting the morning quarry-list. He grins sardonically as they push and shove each other, jostling for a better look at the screen. He takes a large sip of his cool _netra’gel_ against the already rising heat of the Mos Eisley morning. 

The young man makes no move to walk up to the screen. He is flush now, after a lucrative protection job for an unknown contractor. It had only taken one disintegration of a would-be assassin and he was 500k richer. Net, after the contractor had paid for needed repairs for his ship. His dark eyes fall on his helmet, with the dent and other scars. He remembers the day that he received the dent; remembers Bane’s eyes staring at him as they face down.

He shakes the memory away as the Holonet flashes to life. In one quick movement, he pulls his helmet to him and brings it over his recognizable face. One that grows more recognizable as he ages. A face of millions, but one not as common in the last half-decade. He tunes his HUD to the Holonet screen’s display as it flashes faces and descriptions. 

His eyes widen as one face pops up. He pulls it to his display for closer inspection. A young human woman, as out of place among the usual scum that inhabits that list as a newborn tooka in Jabba’s palace. He reads the description. _Twenty years old. Former government official on Alderaan. Usually armed and with moderate combat training. Two hundred thousand credits. Wanted alive, but can be slightly damaged._

The bounty hunter stares at Nola Vorserrie’s sharp features. He knows that some would probably consider her attractive, but the sarcastic half-smile and the narrowed eyes would probably give pause to others.

He has no idea of his own, whether she is attractive. That analysis has never entered into his decision-making process. His hand hovers over the tab on his control gauntlet that would accept the bounty. A figure moves into his shadowed alcove. A figure clad in armor similar to his. 

He places his gun hand on the table, but makes sure that the surprises in his vambraces are active and online. He takes a deep breath, his eyes moving over the figure. The figure wears what appears to be the helmet of a Republic commando—one that the best of those with similar features to the bounty hunter would have worn in the past war—rather than a traditional Mandalorian bucket. Instead of the white or gray with various colors of those clone helmets, it is painted in a dark green, with a vertical slash of gold running from left to right and downwards across the front. The slash ends in a stripe of purple around the base of the helmet.

His eyes track down to the similarly colored chestplate of the _beskar’gam_. He realizes that the green of the armor has a hint of black in it, rather than the standard forest green. He feels his eyebrow raise in the helmet at the two handprints on opposite sides of the chest. The one on the right, in orange outlined in black—the colors of a lust for life and justice in his own father’s culture. The other handprint is much smaller, as if that of a child, in a cacophony of bright colors.

A purple sash knotted around the middle of the abdomen pulls his eyes down towards the waist. A leather gunbelt, studded with sharp teeth and a heavy Corellian blaster high on his hip. A familiar gunbelt. One he had seen around the waist of a Corellian-Mandalorian. Just before the half-breed had left him on the narrow ledge of a cliff on Ord Mantell. 

A man last seen lying on the ground, clad only in his underwear. Filthy, cold, but still defiant as the pain of his cauterized missing finger and other wounds inflicted by the bounty hunter and his partner at the time had nearly overwhelmed him.

Only an hour or so before the man’s Mandalorian uncle had spared the bounty hunter.

He takes a deep breath. “Hello, King.”

The figure reaches up and lifts his helmet from his head. He stares at the bounty hunter with those familiar, defiant green eyes. 

A crooked smile creases the half-breed’s features. He puts his helmet down and sits uninvited at the table. He holds his hands up, palms out. 

“Hello, Boba. I just want to talk. I’ll even pay you for your time.”

As Boba Fett contemplates this, he notices that the man’s left ring finger is whole again.

~=~=~=~=~=

Sen M’Faru sits in a comfortable chair watching the embers of a late autumn fire crackle in the fireplace of the Viceroy-Consort’s office. He moves his eyes to the inhabitant as he sits reading a datapad. Sen focuses on Bail Organa’s thick eyebrows as they rise and fall with each line and paragraph. He shakes his head as he tries to reconcile himself to the fact that Bryne Covenant and Nola Vorserrie both had left him with a flaming bag of shit on his desk when they had left. 

Especially since they had taken his two best investigators with them on this _whatever it is_ that they are performing for Bail. He grins. _Well, at least one of his best investigators. And my layabout son._

His grin fades as he thinks of how his life had changed since knowing the two. With Nola, he had gained the trust of the Organas’ through her, during the investigation of assassination attempts against two Senators. His smile returns as he remembers meeting the young woman for the first time on an Aldera street. She had been standing barefoot in a business suit, a smoking blaster in her hand, her own slight wound oozing, over a dead assassin that she had placed several blaster shots in a tight grouping.

She had then, according to witnesses, proceeded to put Nels Somar in his place, allowing M’Faru to carry out the Alderaan end of the investigation, without interference from those pinheads at the Square, the headquarters for Peace and Planetary Security.

He looks down at his makeshift uniform—a white dress shirt and tan cargo pants, with his new rank plaque affixed. _I’m the pinhead from the Square, now,_ he thinks ruefully. He notices that Bail has put the datapad down and is watching him with an expression of amusement on his bronze features. Sen straightens in his seat self-consciously. 

Bail smiles. “Don’t worry, General. You have a longer attention span than General Covenant.” They both laugh. He grows serious. “So tell me what’s not in the report, Sen,” he says.

“We don’t know where the 2 million came from in Nola’s account, Senator,” he says. “She didn’t have much in there, before. I think she sent a lot of money home to Naboo. Whatever else she had left over went out almost as quickly as it went in.”

Bail closes his eyes at that. “Yeah. She didn’t live beyond her means, but she didn’t exactly save. Probably didn’t teach her that in Handmaiden training. We provided her with housing, as well.”

 _She probably didn’t expect much of a future,_ Sen thinks, _based on what I’ve learned in the last month._ He realizes that his face may have betrayed his thoughts as he sees Bail nodding.

“So is there anything else you can tell me about the money?” Bail asks.

“No. Just that it was a transfer, rather than a deposit. We are attempting to trace it, but our slicing countermeasures people have never seen anything like it. It was a ‘work of art’, one of them said,” Sen finishes. 

He sees a light go on in Bail’s eyes, just for an instant, as if he is remembering something. The Senator shakes his head, then looks at M’Faru. 

“What about the bounty that my sources say has been put out on Nola?” Organa asks. 

Sen runs his hand over his shaven head.“We haven’t been able to locate the source. As you know, private bounties are illegal by Alderaan’s Justice Code. Anyone who put one out could be liable for arrest.”

Bail is quiet for a moment. He contemplates the fire. “Thank you General. I may be able to find out some things through unofficial channels,” he says, rising. Sen rises as well. Bail holds his hand out as Sen starts to salute. 

The _Mishleh_ takes his hand. “Very well, Senator. I’ll be in touch.”

As he makes to leave, he steals a glance at his Senator. Organa has the look of a man who is on the cusp of figuring out answers to the major questions of the universe. 

~=~=~=~=~=

As his new Peacekeeper-General leaves the room, Bail Organa leans his fists on the Corellian burlwood table. He closes his eyes. He hears a slight noise behind—a noise whose location causes him to smile. Only one is allowed to use that entrance. He raises his eyes to the far wall as a pair of arms encircle his waist. Bail feels Breha’s face rest against his back. “Hello, love. I thought you were going to stay with Leia today,” he says. 

“Took a break. There’s only so much of that damned singing purple rancor I can take.”

He grins and starts to sing the theme song to the aforementioned creature’s holoshow. His only slightly off-key, rich bass is a welcome change from the screeching cacophony that is the usual register of that song. A song played over and over again by the Princess Royal. He stops as she reaches downward and squeezes. He manages not to let his voice rise into Barno’s register. Her hand relaxes, caressing gently. 

Bail sighs and turns around, taking her into his arms. He rests his head on hers, sighing.

“I wish we could ‘take a meeting’,” she says gently, her voice husky. “But we need to figure out what’s going on. I feel like we’re losing control.”

She feels him nod over her head. “I know,” he says. “We came up with this whole idea when we got wind of a threat to Alderaan from Covenant’s contacts. I feel like now, somebody is a step ahead and controlling the game.”

“I don’t know, love,” she replies. “We weren’t sure what the threat was when Covenant brought it to us. It’s one reason that we agreed when Nola said that we should bring him here. It was a hope that we could flush whoever it was out.”

“We just thought it was the Antols,” he says, “But I think they’re the tip of the iceberg. Their threat and our response only served to expose us to closer threats.”

Neither of them give voice to that threat.

“Do you think we did the right thing, exposing Nola to this?” Breha asks. She looks away as she does.

“I don’t know, love of my life,” Bail replies. “I think that when we allowed Draq’ to have his slicer build that connection between her and Covenant in the gossip rags, we might have hoped it could be used to protect our world, as well. Just not in the way that we intended. In a way that could put so much on her.”

She shakes her head. “We have already put so much on her, especially with Ahsoka. The risk of losing her responsibility when she lost so much on Naboo.” She looks down. “She has bent with everything. Fin. The loss of her child. Apailana and her fellow Handmaidens. If she loses a new home; if we can’t expose whoever threatens us and Alderaan—she may break. She is so young.”

“I don’t know, Bre,” he says. “The Naboo believe that the best Queens are young women, because they speak plainly and truly in the face of power and threat. Ahsoka, Padme’, Nola—they all have been trained from an early age in their roles. Hell, Nola’s family wasn’t even from the political class that they usually take Handmaidens from, except for her distant relation to Padme’. Neyutnee saw something in her to bring her into the program.” He grins. “She’ll never be Queen. But she’ll stand behind her. Or in front of her if need be.”

He kisses her gently. “She still has a lot to learn and probably a lot of growing still to do. Just like Ahsoka, for all of her Jedi training.” His eyes take a devilish glint. “Of course, our former Peacekeeper-General is a work in progress as well.” Their laughter sparks again, then fades. “We were so goddamned intent on protecting Ahsoka’s identity; even from one she had grown up with. We probably didn’t think how it would affect Nola with how she felt about both of them.”

“Or Ahsoka,” Bre says. She returns his kiss; staring up into his eyes after they break away. Her features grow serious, the wrinkle between her brows that he finds endearing forming. “I do think it’s time that Nola takes that new role,” she whispers. “I think that you’re right; we’ll need to distance her, as the conduit to Fulcrum, from the government. We just have to get her out of this mess.”

Both fall silent as they hold each other, thinking of the cost of their dreams. The cost to their young.

As always, neither thinks of the cost to themselves. Only to each other.

~=~=~=~=~=

Covenant shifts his _buy’ce_ on the table. After a moment, Boba removes his helmet and sets it down. Covenant waits for half a beat, then leans back, He keeps his hands on the edge of the table.

Boba lifts his glass with his weak hand and drains it. After a moment, he signals the server-droid. He lifts two fingers and nods at Covenant at the droid’s inquiry. 

Boba Fett continues to stare at Covenant, his dark amber eyes unblinking until the droid returns with the ales. Boba picks up his fresh glass and sips. After a moment, Covenant picks his up and sips it.

“I see you got your boo-boo fixed, King,” Boba says. 

“Yeah. No thanks to you and Tommis,” King says.

“How’re the balls?’

“They’re good. Would like to feel them? Oh, wait. Still a virgin.”

Covenant sees Boba’s eyes flash at the slight, then calm.

“I heard that you cut Tommis into a couple of pieces. Or your Togruta girlfriend did when she came to save you,” Fett says calmly

“It was a group effort.”

“I knew a Togruta piece back in the day who used a lightsaber. Didn’t think there were many tailheads around that could do that.”

Bryne keeps his breathing even. “Might want to show some respect. You might want to leave my sex life out of anything you have going, little Boba. It could be dangerous if you don’t have your little stun-thingy and you can’t ambush me at an elevator, or you can’t shoot two innocent cops.” He grins. “Especially if it involves that Togruta. She is the brains and the skill of the operation. Plus, I hear you met her when she was taking your narrow little ass to Coruscant Scrubs, cause the Republic didn’t know what the hell to do with you—someone who could bring down a _Venator_.”

Covenant can tell it is Boba’s turn to keep his breathing even, at the mention of the nickname for Coruscant’s central jail for high-risk inmates. “You need to forget anything about her, Boba. Especially when you take those Imperial contracts you’re so fond of,” he finishes. 

Boba makes a noncommittal gesture. “None of my business, King, unless I get paid by somebody to make it my business. So what do you want? You’ve already cost me a bounty that could be fairly easy pickings.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. She has more than ‘moderate’ combat training. Plus she has family that have her back. Against all comers.” He allows a dangerous smile to come over his face. “Family that includes me.”

Boba stares at him for a moment. “Then what do you want?” he finally repeats. 

“To pay you to watch her back. I could use the extra help while I am doing some other things. Especially dealing with every two-bit bounty hunter in the galaxy who thinks as you do.”

Boba looks towards the screen. “What are you paying?”

“I’ll double the bounty. Plus throw an extra 100K if you give me any info you find on who let the bounty.”

“750,” he says tersely. 

Bryne grins, but says nothing.

After a moment, Boba breaks his gaze. “What is she to you, King? You getting some from her or something, as well?”

“Boba, Boba, Boba,” King says. “You need to learn some manners. If only I had the time or inclination to teach them to you.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Not that it is any of your business, but she is a friend. Near about family.”

Fett nods. “Okay. I’ll do it. But you can give me a straight answer.” He stares at Covenant for another moment. “Why me? You could have any bounty hunter to play babysitter.”

Covenant looks away, as he tries to suppress the grief that swells. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age. Maybe it’s the fact that I knew a good number of your brothers.”

“I didn’t have any brothers! They were just clones!” Boba screams. He immediately calms as other hunters turn and look. “Mind your own damned business,” he says darkly.

Bryne gazes at him calmly. “Maybe not, Boba,” he says quietly. “But I did. They all had your face.”

Boba gets up and pulls his bucket on. He pulls his comm out and touches it to Covenant’s. “I’ll be in touch.”

He turns and cocks his head. A young Nikto bounty hunter is bragging loudly about what he is going to do with Nola’s bounty. 

“Looks like I’m on the clock,” Boba says. He walks towards the would-be champion hunter. 

Covenant smiles sadly. He thinks of his brothers. Of those lost and now found.

_Vode An._

Brothers all.

~=~=~=~=~=

Cham Syndulla allows Numa to dismount the _blurrg_ before he does. He slides down, his eyes sad as he looks at the growing young girl. He shakes his head as he thinks of her having to grow up before her time. As always, his mind flies to another young girl, growing so fast. He smiles as he sees Hera in his mind’s eye. Her arms crossed over her chest, looking up at him skeptically. A mirror image of her mother’s usual look, reserved for him. His expression grows thunderous as he thinks of that ever-present orange astromech next to her, a continuous litany of his shortcomings sounding in its strange version of binary.

Gobi walks up beside him. He smiles again at the man’s solid reliability. He places his hand on the shoulder of the only survivor of his inner circle from the Emperor’s recent rampage. He closes his eyes as he thinks of seeing his right hand, Isval’s, head resting on the ground where the Emperor’s dog had left it after beheading her with his lightsaber. 

He stops his anger from rising, bringing his thoughts to this problem from the distant cell in this area. He sees Gobi react to the expression on his face. 

“I know, Cham. These aren’t the sharpest knives in the belt, ever since Tori Laken got dropped here.” 

Cham thinks of the Zeltron and his anger. Only Isval’s intervention had saved Cham or Gobi from shooting him on several occasions. He looks at Gobi. “So what is this that they found, my friend?” he asks, bringing as light of a tone as he can.

“Don’t have a lot of information, General. They found what they thought was an Imperial pilot, but she was a Togruta. She was about to be executed by a patrol. They stunned her and took her prisoner, after something happened to the Imps.” 

Cham’s eyes widen at Gobi’s words. “Come on,” he says suddenly. “I think this might be disastrous.” He turns and starts to move quickly to the cave. He notices that there are no guards on duty anywhere outside. 

He sees Numa start moving faster as they hear an unexpected noise from the mouth. A light voice, humming absent-mindedly. He tries to grab her as she surges forward. His mind rushes to the possibilities that had first risen when Gobi had mentioned a Togruta. 

He stops at the sight that greets his eyes. He feels his expression grow thunderous as he sees his ten fighters on their knees, facing the door. They all look at him sheepishly as he realizes that their hands are bound—they also seem to have various bruises and contusions on their faces and heads. Several of them stare back at him with glazed eyes, as if they had just regained consciousness. His eyes widen as he realizes that the leader of the cell, a Rutian woman, is clad only in her underwear, rather than her customary tank and cargo pants.

He hears Numa’s voice, sobbing with joy as she rests in the arms of the interloper. 

Ahsoka Tano’s blue eyes look at him as she lifts her face from Numa’s head, her own eyes glistening slightly. She looks at him for several moments as the tips of her front lekku twine with Numa’s; a sign of family on this world. He grins as he sees the discarded Imperial flight suit on the ground; Ahsoka is clad in his fighter’s clothing.

She Smirks in an expression that he had become familiar with almost a year ago. “Hello, Cham,” she says. “Need a favor.”

He grits his teeth at her next words. “Need you to help me get on an Imperial cruiser.”

His mind flies to the sight of a full destroyer falling from the sky, to the faces of his many dead after he had brought it down. 

He turns and stalks out of the cave.

~=~=~=~=~=

Draq’ Bel Iblis stalks out of the conference room for the second week in a row. A second week in which he and the Imperial adviser had stared at each other with fire and sword in their expressions. As typical with any Corellian meeting, good whisky was always available, along with branch water to accompany. 

Draq’ had attempted to make peace by pouring Delilah her own drink with his. She had nodded appreciatively at the Whyren’s Reserve with water back. _At least she’s a true Corellian. Even if she was whelped by the Hag,_ he had thought.

The meeting had stayed on the plateau—neither climbing up the peak of rapprochement , nor tumbling down to the valley of blasterfire. 

A full hour of sitting across the table from her.

Dani rises as he stalks out of the room. He sees Delilah’s eyes lock appreciatively on her form, up and down. Dani returns the gaze coolly, but with a hint of appreciation returned. 

Draq’ narrows his eyes at his daughter as Sal leaves and they enter another elevator. She rolls her eyes. “Get over it, old man. I’m an adult.”

He looks away. “I know, sweetie. I’m just thinking of the costs,” he says quietly.

Her look softens as they exit into the courtyard. “We all use our skills, _abeeyah_. I fight the darkness however I can. So that Jamelyn hopefully won’t have to.” She grins. “Besides. We can throw Bryne at her again as well.”

He snorts. “Yeah. At least the adult thing is not an issue, seeing that he’s still working on it.”

They both stop as they see a hooded, cloaked figure head into another entrance of the Imperial complex. Dani stops, her eyes widening.

“What?” he asks, staring at the figure. “That’s Sal’s private entrance.”

She is silent as she takes several deep breaths. “That person has pheromones. Powerful ones.”

“I don’t feel anything,” Draq’ replies. 

“You wouldn’t. Not at that range. I can. It’s one reason that species hates us. We can detect them and we can fight the affects, as well as cause some discomfort for them with the resonance.”

“What is it?” 

“A Falleen. A female.”

They both look at one another, but speak as one. 

“Black Sun.”

~=~=~=~=~=

Ahsoka walks out into the dim Ryloth night. She looks up at the sky, with its new stars from the _Perilous’s_ debris. The winking fire as occasional pieces start their terminal plummet into the atmosphere.

The glowing lights serve as a new addition to the rugged beauty of the world. They also serve as a reminder. A reminder that restoring the light will not be easy; it will cost a great deal. A cost of many lives.

She only recently has had an inkling—a slight feeling that she might survive; survive to be an elder huntress on her world. Ahsoka shakes her head. She may not be a Jedi, but only in her darkest moments does she think of her death. Now, she thinks more of her life. Her years alone, since she had joined Bail’s movement had tempered her—only brief moments with Nola and Leia had given her moments of laughter and thoughts other than her job.

Now she has thoughts of others that help her maintain the light and the balance. Others from past and now present. Ahsoka pushes the feelings of loneliness and separation that threaten her balance away, as she senses Cham walking up to her.

“You have a lot of nerve coming here, Fulcrum,” the leader says. Ahsoka turns, but says nothing. “You and your little network didn’t deem us worthy of your help when we might need you. You cost our world some of our best.”

She calms her breathing. “Maybe so, Cham. But your own arrogance and your inability to see the big picture of the galaxy could bear some responsibility,” she says quietly. 

“I saw an opportunity. An opportunity to end the Emperor and his lapdog—but I couldn’t get help,” he says in his accented voice.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Cham? How many times do we have to tell Saw Gerrera? We’re not ready to fight the Empire openly. I won’t spend lives needlessly, just so we can say we’re bloodying their noses, rather than waiting—and building—so that we can cut their heads off.” She feels the involuntary sob in her voice as she continues, thinking of her choice of words. “I’ve already thrown thousands of lives away in the last war. I can’t do it again.”

She starts to turn away. She feels a pair of arms encircle her waist and hips. Numa tightens her embrace, looking up at her. Ahsoka looks at Syndulla. His eyes are sad as he watches the two young women. 

“I don’t need a lot, Cham. I need help to get on a certain light cruiser—the tactical communications ship, so that I can open a certain file at a location with a little help from the Captain. Her eyes darken, then flash with anger. “Your ingrates made it that much harder by murdering those troopers I’d knocked out.”

“How do you propose to get there?” Gobi asks as he walks up. 

She pulls an injector out of her pouch. “With this. If I’m dead, I’m not a threat. We thought of our ship pursuing one I was on and them finding me. Someone would need to get on the cruiser and wake me up.”

Cham’s eyes widen. “That’s a hell of a risk. I know those drugs can kill you if you don’t wake up in a certain amount of time. Why are you here, then?”

“You weren’t exactly making it easy for us to contact you. I thought you could get on the ship when it was on the surface, when they bring me down here to get me to the ISB.”

Cham, Gobi, and Numa look at each other. Cham turns to her and shakes his head. “Since the _Perilous_ , they have tightened security on the ships when they are anywhere near the planet. It is why most are in more distant orbit. Also, they are between ISB station chiefs. Nobody would be senior enough to investigate.” He smiles wolfishly. “We’ve been very effective at killing ISB officers and technicians.” His smile fades. “It’s about all that we can do.” He looks thoughtful.

“Maybe we can switch it around,” he says, his accent sharp. “Maybe we can get you on the ship from here. Then your fake Imps can get you off. It just needs to wait a couple of weeks. We have the rotation schedules. The command ship will be off picket duty them.”

“Makes sense. Maybe gives us more time to prepare than if we were going to have to stage a battle or something. Plus, I don’t have to get back up to my ship. So what do you have in mind?” Ahsoka asks. 

He grins. “Maybe my ingrates can be useful. We’ve infiltrated the Imperial collaborationist militia. The Imps don’t get out here much. We’ve managed to cut out quite a few small patrols. They don’t even come looking for them any more.”

His eyes lock with hers. “You know any ISB agents that might help us? Or someone who can pass?”

She grins. “Just might. Let me make some calls.” She grows serious, as her hands caress Numa’s head. “I have to figure out how to keep them from looking at me too closely, so that I can maintain my identity. I have a holo-masker and we can use some makeup, but if they look too closely—,”

Ahsoka sees the three Twi’leks look at one another, as if in silent communication. Matching smirks—expressions worthy of her own species—flow to their features.

“Leave that to us. Tell me, Fulcrum. How squeamish are you?”


	10. Meglann: By and by - the boldest stole out of his Covert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Interim Director Antol has been making contacts with various individuals who might put their own interests over that of our Emperor. In addition, her ‘family business’ on Naboo and other worlds seems to be flourishing, albeit with changes in certain key personnel. Terminal changes in which there is evidence that she and unknown operatives might have precipitated._
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> _There doesn’t seem to be much resentment in the management changes. There is some evidence that she may be looking to expand operations in the Core. There have been inquiries as to a suitable headquarters, usually some sort of a food service establishment._
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> _Although, the Empire doesn’t generally have serious issues with officers engaging in profit-making, there should be thought as to the scale. Too large, and her agenda may eclipse that of the Emperor, especially if she is confirmed as permanent Minister of Imperial Security._
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> Confidential report to Colonel Wulff Yularen from Agent Alexsandr Kallus, ISB-021.

**The Past: One Week Before Empire Day 5**

Dalist Florlin-Helt walks out into the living room, just as he hears the door to the basement apartment close. He sighs as he manages to miss Meglann again. 

Something had been bothering her for the last couple of months. Something that she refused to engage about. He knows that there had been something before that, with the slightly older Togruta woman he wasn’t supposed to know about. Something that she seemed to be genuinely worried about —much more than any spats with previous girlfriends and boyfriends, or whether they were avoiding her or spending time with someone else—all of the teen drama and angst that he had experienced since she had begun showing interest in things of that sort.

That earlier worry was mixed with fear. Fear for someone, not of. The current fear seemed to be the opposite. _Maybe I can reach her tonight, he thinks. I wish she would open up to me._

“Not like she isn’t following your example,” he whispers to himself, thinking of unanswered questions about mothers and fathers. A loud pounding on the door interrupts his reverie. He sets down his caf cup and walks to the door.

Dalist opens the door before the individual can pound on it again. His anger dies as the young woman drops her hand. 

She smiles disarmingly. “I’m sorry. I’m used to immediate response,” she says.

He stares at the woman. Dark, searching eyes in a bronze face gaze at him. She brushes her dark hair back over the collar of her pristine white tunic. He stares at the six pairs of red-over-blue rank tiles on her chest, but cannot identify the rank from his brief experience with Republic insignia from Elann.

“Dalist Florlin-Helt?” she asks in a mid-Rim accent. 

After a moment, he nods.

“I am Director Leeza Antol of the ISB,” she says. “I have some questions to ask you. May I come in?”

“What questions?” he asks, his face calmer than his heart.

“It’s about your ward, Meglann Florlin,” she says. “I’m assisting a member of your government with inquiries about certain criminal activity. Someone has been showing a great deal of interest in her. Someone who could be very dangerous.”

“Well, for one thing, she’s not my ward. She’s my niece. What branch of the government are you assisting?”

“Never you mind,” Antol says. “Please answer my questions, or you and your niece will be at the Imperial complex before the night is through.”

He smiles. “I don’t know about that. Something tells me that Queen Breha and Viceroy Organa might not allow that. Especially since you came alone, without your bucketheads.”

“They might,” she replies, coolly. “Your Peacekeeper-General will obstruct them with no problem.”

Dalist feels his heart warm at what he is able to say next. “Maybe not. Sounds like Somar is out. He is going to be replaced. By some Corellian who has his own reputation for hard-headedness.” He is warmed even more at her stunned expression. 

“Where did you hear this?” she spits.

He grins. “You’d be surprised at what you hear when you listen,” Dalist replies. 

Antol is silent as she stares daggers at him. Finally, she smiles. The smile is not an improvement on the anger. “Perhaps I should listen,” she says. “I might be back, Mr. Florlin-Helt. Maybe with some of those bucketheads.” 

She turns and walks away. Dalist watches as she climbs into a waiting landspeeder. His eyes widen as he sees a familiar profile in the back seat with her. A profile that belonged to someone who always seemed to be on the Holonet, complaining about something.

He looks down at his shaking hands as the landspeeder drives away.

“Who was that?” comes a familiar voice behind him.

Dalist jumps and whirls around. Meglann stands at the interior door of her basement apartment. She is clad in a tank top and a pair of shorts. She holds one of his ale bottles halfway down from her lips.

“No one,” he says, his voice harsh even to his own ears. He looks away at the hurt in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, ‘Glann,” he says. “It was no one. Just a client.”

Her eyes lock with his, telling him she doesn’t believe him. She sets the bottle down, crossing her arms. She finally shakes her head after several minutes of silent staring.

“You know, Dalist, maybe if you would come clean a bit more, with some more information, I might trust you more.” She turns and walks through the basement door, slamming it. The half-finished bottle rattles and tips over, pouring the remainder on the kitchen floor.

Dalist’s heart falls at her words. _I don’t want to lose you,_ he thinks, _just like I lost your mother. Just like I lost Islan._

 _I don’t want to lose you to the stars._

The bottle rolls on the floor unimpeded.

**The Present**

Meglann lifts up from the range, placing her fists on her lower back, cracking the muscles. She looks around the kitchen. The mid-morning afternoon rush of starving gamblers had slowed as they had gone back to the tables, drawn away by the afternoon drink specials in the casino. 

She sighs as she thinks of the time passing. _Another two weeks gone._ A small part of her brain—the part that recalls being held by her mother, of the young man with the open face holding hands with her uncle, kissing her on her forehead—wonders if she has been forgotten.

Meglann shakes the dark thoughts away. _No. You haven’t. It isn’t in Ahsoka’s or Bryne’s character. They will come_. She rests her forehead against the shelf of pots and pans above the range. “They’re busy,” she whispers to herself. “I need to get myself out of this. I got myself into it.” She gently taps her forehead against the metal, then straightens. Another thought escapes from that same part of her brain. 

_I would give anything to see them._

She picks up the frying pan and tosses it in the pile on the counter next to the range. Fit grins at her and touches her hand as he passes next to her. She grins back, then allows it to fade. 

The last two weeks had brought changes to their dynamic. She closes her eyes again, as she remembers the kiss to his forehead as they prepared for sleep. Of moving her lips to his, letting her tongue move into his mouth.

They had both stopped as they thought about what could happen if they continued, as they thought about how this could be used against them. She smiles. They had not stopped kissing, but they had not allowed it to progress into anything more.

They had grown even more at ease with one another, if that was actually possible. Meglann looks down at the small device over her bare ankle, just above the clogs that she wears. She looks away, so as not to call attention to the fact that it is nearly off. As is Fit’s. They had agreed that they would take the step together, in spite of Meglann’s initial protests. 

“Don’t worry about me, Meg-lann,” he had said in a whisper, just above the sound of the running shower. She had felt his lips against her ear as his fingers moved through her cropped curls with the soap. “You have made me no longer fear what is outside; what could happen. It will be better if we go together.”

Her eyes tear as she thinks of what could happen to him. She hears the sound of footsteps behind her. She turns as a large group of uniformed beings walk into the kitchen, led by Gordo’s odious manager, whose name she had never bothered to learn, with his foul breath and wandering hands and eyes. 

Her eyes lock on a familiar face from her past. A tall woman, about Bryne and Dani’s age, dressed in a spotless white tunic and a dark skirt. 

A woman last seen on Bryne’s arm, after an altercation with her ISB agents in the bright light of a small Alderaani diner. Her breathing quickens as she sees the woman’s eyes light with recognition. She moves away from the range towards the group, ignoring the fire from the multiple eyes of the manager. 

She opens her mouth.

+=+=+=+=+=

Mal Adede walks into the Project Manager’s quarters for Imperial Construction Project Scarif. He adjusts his eyes to the dim artificial light; the only true lighting comes from the large picture window overlooking the massive project and the bright blue waters and pristine beaches. He shifts his weight from his injured leg, but stands braced at attention. 

Jano Secor sits in his hoverchair, watching the shuttles and construction pods flit back and forth in the bright sky. He slowly rotates the chair.

Adede feels his eyes widening as Secor gives him a warm smile. “Sit down, Mal, before you fall down,” he says. Secor motions to an aide, who pushes a comfortable chair and stool under Mal’s legs, then exits. 

“I’ve read your reports, Mal. It seems like your objective is at least where we can find her if we need to extract her.”

“Yes sir. The commando is watching her. I also have engaged someone to watch the commando. I don’t trust her.”

Secor smiles. “Yes. I know. She’s Leeza Antol’s creature. I appreciate you remaining loyal to me. I know that blood family ties can truly pull you in different directions. But, I will let you know something that she probably won’t. Even though you have blood ties through your mother to the Antols, we are not so far apart, if you go back long enough.”

Adede raises his eyebrow, waiting to see if there is more to come.

“Back to only a little bit after the time that Tarre Vizla united the clans on Mandalore under the Darksaber, there were three major Houses that the clans all rallied to. The Vizla, the Kryze, and the Malika.” The Moff pauses and takes a sip of water. 

“You might not realize this, but Malikarus is your given name, just as it’s my middle name. I guess that I should tell you now. You’re not my brother’s son. You are mine. It was calculated, to bring the two families closer again.”

Mal sits transfixed, unable to speak. 

“I said Malika was a small House. We only had two clans—the Antols and the Secors. There was a war within the House. The _Mand’alor_ , in a fit of peace-mongering, or perhaps wanting another rival out of the way, disbanded the House and banished the leadership, declaring them _darmanda_.” He notices Mal’s eyebrow rising even more. He smiles. “You might want to learn _Mando’a_ , since it is your birthright. That word refers to the state of not being Mandalorian,” he says. He manages to get up and hobble brokenly over to Mal. Mal gets up. 

Jano takes him in his arms. He stares at Mal. “I know I have treated you badly, Mal. But I couldn’t acknowledge you, for fear of my enemies taking advantage of it and killing you or holding you for ransom. He kisses Adede on his cheeks and embraces him. 

Mal hears a murmured phrase in his ear during the embrace. “ _Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad_ ,” Secor whispers. “I know your name as my child.” As they break away, Secor stares at him. “You look so much like my father, with your darker skin,” he says, touching Mal’s cheek.

Both manage to sit in their respective seats. “What about Leeza Antol, Your Excellency?”

Secor smiles. “You can call me _Buir,_ when we are alone, Mal,” he says. His expression darkens. “I will deal with the so-called _Antol’icha_. She and all of her remaining minions do not know of our heritage. She ascribes to the legend that the Antols were vagabond thieves and murderers cast off from Chandrila. They may have been, but their legacy is more than that of criminals.” He clinches his teeth. “She will bend a knee to us, or they will be wiped out. I am certain that her soldiers might help us, once they know the true story of our potential power.”

“What is that, _Buir_?” Mal asks. 

“Mandalore is in chaos. With my position, it’s distinctly possible for me to sweep in and take over as the true _Mand’alor_ , rather than just as a Moff or Viceroy.”

“What about Malaky?” Adede asks. 

Secor’s eyes flash briefly, then calm. “I adopted that name from someone that I partnered with, in the past. I know that Antol has as well, via her pet murderer, Lardai. It’s a name that has allowed me to absorb a great number of criminal enterprises.”

Mal nods. “And the girl? Meglann?” He swears that he sees the old man’s eyes soften.

“There’s a good possibility that she’s my daughter as well. Even—,” he says before he pauses. “I want all of my family together. I know that you’ve never had one, but I think our strength can only multiply if we watch out for one another.”

Mal remains silent. “What about Lardai? I can’t tell if she’s working for Antol or not. She says that they’re getting married, in order to get the Antol name out of the picture.”

“Keep watch on her. If the time is right, we’ll bring her into the fold, as a lieutenant. If not, I expect you to be able to kill her.”

This last is said with a deadly tone, implying consequences if he didn’t. 

“Go ahead and return to Ganthel. Take the girl and bring her here. Kill any who get in your way. Make sure she’s unharmed.”

 _More consequences_ , Mal thinks.

Mal Adede rises. He salutes and turns on his heels as best as he can. He leaves the old man with his thoughts. 

The old man’s thoughts move to the distant past. He pulls out a holo, taken from a distance. A holo of a young diner owner, laughing at something a customer had said. His mind flows back to a young woman with almost identical features. A young woman who is not laughing as she looks at him. 

_I’m disgusted by you. I’ll never go with you. I’ll resign first_ , says the past. _You are everything that I despise. Commander_ , she continues. 

These words are spit out at him, as she stands at attention, listening as he lays out his case.

Rejecting him. Demonstrating the resolve of someone he could never possess or manipulate, unlike so many others. 

He sits in the dim, institutional room, staring out at a beautiful world being made less beautiful at his command. Jano Malikarus Secor sits alone with his ghosts.

+=+=+=+=+=

Colonel Leeza Lardai-Antol, once the Director of the ISB and Minister of State Security, now the Imperial Advisor to the Conyl—the hereditary Chieftain of Ganthel, walks into the bar with her entourage. She looks at her right hand and now-wife, Cantos Lardai as the restaurant manager prattles on with his grating voice. Lardai’s dark eyes show their whites as they move in the direction of the ceiling.

Leeza stills her impatience. She had come to this hole of a casino-restaurant because of her wife’s reports of the young woman that Secor had been sending his minions and their inquires out like swarms of the milk-flies that populate the wetlands of this world to find. 

She didn’t know why he sought this young nobody; she had an inkling, but she would do anything to deny the old bastard anything that he sought. She was sure that he and his cabal on the Ubiqtorate, the clearinghouse for Imperial intelligence and security, had helped to sabotage her rise to the top. Her dark eyes narrow as she thinks of that cabal. Armand Isard, now head of State Security—a name being mentioned for another of the Grand Moff titles that had been created—for the Core regions. Wullf Yularen, her own deputy. Two men that she with her network of thieves and ISB agents had not been able to find anything on that could besmirch their reputations.

Secor, however, had his fingers in just about every little criminal pot that he could find, starting with his dealing in the Clone Wars with Zygerrian slavers and their agents. She grins to herself as she thinks of the almost desperate search for the diner-owner. A search that had led her and her own little family to Alderaan. A search that had born the appearance of searching for a central headquarters in their traditional enclaves—a small family restaurant near the center of activity, but far enough away from central suspicion—such as a University district.

Leeza clinches her teeth as she thinks of the smartassed Corellian who had been brought in as head of security by Organa. A tenacious protector who had rooted out the Antol family with ease and dogged determination—especially after her idiot older brother had nearly killed the diner-owner in a fire. She smirks as she remembers the diner owner’s brown eyes staring daggers at her as she walked out with Covenant on her arm. She starts as she realizes that she is being watched as they enter the kitchen. She sees the Gran manager move towards another figure. Leeza feels her eyes widen slightly as she recognizes those same dark eyes, bereft of either thunder or their usual sparkle. 

Leeza looks the young woman— _Meglann, that’s her name_ —up and down. Her thin frame is clad in a standard orange jumpsuit with a chef’s jacket belted over it loosely. The bronze curls that had always fought to escape the messy ponytail were cropped to no more than a couple of centimeters.

The young woman ignores the manager. “Director, I’ve been taken illegally,” she says. “I’m being held against my will.”

The young woman screams and falls to the floor as the Gran punches a button on a control gauntlet. Leeza’s eyes widen again as Meglann fights her way back to her feet, in spite of the apparent pain. Blood starts to flow from her lip as she bites it against the pain. She takes several wobbling, halting steps towards Antol.

Lardai starts towards the young woman, her hand going to the blaster on her chest. Leeza touches the arm of her commando. Cant looks at her curiously. Leeza jerks her head at the Gran.

Cantos draws her blaster and places under the Gran’s center eye. The other eyes widen, but he releases the switch. Leeza walks over to Meglann and helps her to a chair.

“Ms. Florlin, what do you mean? I’m familiar with the laws of Ganthel. They are explicit on helping indentures escape on this world.”

“That would be all well and good if I helped someone escape on Ganthel. I was on Raxus Secundus,” Meglann says as she catches her breath from the pain. 

Leeza’s eyes track to the manager. He avoids her gaze with all of his eyes. He apparently gains confidence as he faces her, his black eyes defiant. 

At least until Cant Lardai moves into his vision. 

“This Asset has claimed this before. The Commerce-Takers’ logs show they were on Ganthel, in the entertainment district when commerce was interfered with.”

“That’s a goddamned lie,” the ‘Asset’ shouts. The Gran’s finger hovers over the control button out of reflex.

He screams when Lardai calmly snaps the digit. Out of reflex, as well, apparently. Leeza smiles at her somewhat apologetic glance to her superior.

“I think that I need to investigate this more thoroughly,” she says. “Please make sure that this young woman is presented at my convenience at the Conyl Pryde-house for a hearing.” She looks sharply at the manager. “In good condition. Speaking of which, we have examined your assets. Only this young woman and a young Twi’lek meet the criteria for condemnation for the Imperial Construction project I am here to enforce. We will place her, ah, participation on hold. Please present the Twi’lek for transport by tomorrow morning.” 

Leeza nods and then turns to exit. As she does, she hears the Gran say to Meglann, “I might not be able to condition you, slut, but I can certainly add to your term. Five more years, for attempted escape.” 

Meglann’s reply is lost as she is led away by one of the Gran’s minions.

+=+=+=+=+=

An observer, hidden in one of the few areas of shadow in the bar watches as all participants disperse, as he has for almost a ten-day. He makes sure that his face is well hidden as the Imperials march by, even with his new disguise.

He takes a deep breath and gets up, following the Gran and the young woman towards the quarters. 

_You better be worth it, my girl,_ thinks Dav Kolan.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann gets up as she is shoved into the storage room. She moves to the hidden panel near the ‘fresher; lifts the panel and seizes several objects. She uses one of those objects to pry the final bit of her control anklet off. She places the other objects, a collection of Imperial credits that she had purloined in her pocket. She looks up at Fit. He sits on the bunk, watching sadly. 

“Come on, Fit,” she says. “I have to go now. I don’t know what the hell this damned Imp is going to do.”

Fit’s blue eyes fill with tears. “I can’t, Meg-lann,” he whispers. “I don’t want to die. If I am caught, it means disposal.” He sobs. “I thought that I could, but I can’t.”

Meglann feels her face fall with despair. After a moment, she nods. She reaches down and draws him into her arms. She kisses his tears away, then touches his lips with hers for as long as she can. She lifts the small Candlewick from around her neck, the last material object from her previous life; something she had somehow managed to keep anyone from taking from her, throughout this whole ordeal. She drops the necklace over Fit’s head and lekku. “Take care, love,” she says. “If I get out of this, I’m going to come back with some of my friends.” She looks down. “If they will take me back.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t get a vote,” comes a voice with an Outer Rim drawl. The accent is mixed with others, as if the owner hadn’t used it in a while.

Meglann whirls. A tall man with blonde hair and a beard watches her with ice blue eyes. There is something familiar about the man’s sardonic expression.

“Who are you?” she asks. 

“You can call me Trigger. Apparently I’m your ticket out of here. A couple of people who think that you’re a great lay sent me.”

She grins. “I’ve been told that.”

“I only have your huntress’s and her asshole Corellian’s judgement to go on. I don’t trust either one of their tastes.” His smirk grows. “Although the Corellian shows distinct promise. Come on. Time to go.”

He looks at Fit, who watches them with wide eyes. “You coming, or staying, bud?” he asks.

Fit says nothing. Trigger draws his blaster. 

“Wait! There’s no need to shoot him,” Meglann cries.

Trigger smirks. “Yeah, there is. If he ain’t at least unconscious, they might think he helped. He would be in a world of hurt.”

Fit stands up. “On second thought, with him and his blaster, there might be a better chance of us getting out of this, Meg-lann,” he says. 

As they exit the door, none of them see the figure watching as they leave.

+=+=+=+=+=

Cantos Lardai double-times down the street, shoving slow Imperial subjects out of her way. The four large figures, clad in various versions of Imperial armor, easily keep up with her. She hears the wail of sirens and horns. She thinks about Leeza’s instructions. _Get her, Cant. Make sure she is unharmed._

Then the silly twit had to go and escape. 

Lardai hears blaster fire ahead of her. She speeds up and rushes around the corner. Her eyes instantly survey the scene. 

A tall, blonde, human male returns the fire of the Gran and his minions. One arm hangs useless. Her would-be rescuer is separated from the girl, who is on her hands and knees, shaking her head as if to clear it. Blood pours from a wound on her shoulder, obviously not inflicted by an energy weapon. A young Twi’lek—the other ‘Asset’ deemed suitable for the project struggles with two thugs, one of whom has a knife in his hand. A knife being brought to the Twi’lek’s neck. 

Cant moves her vision to her target. She sees the Gran move the slugthrower to the girl’s head. In her peripheral vision, she sees the human move towards them. She places one shot in the center of the Gran’s head before he can bring the weapon up fully. The Commando then switches her fire to the human, causing him to jink away. He pauses for a moment, curses, then turns away as she and her commandos move towards him.

Cant Lardai stands over the young woman. She kneels beside her. “Meglann,” she says, putting as much warmth in the words as she is capable of, “time to go.”

Meglann swings at her, a clumsy punch that is easily avoided. She points to the thugs dragging the Twi’lek away. Cant jerks her head. The four commandos move towards the thugs and their quarry. As they move out of sight, a blaster shot is heard. 

Meglann screams in anger and makes to stand. Cant makes a decision. She fires a stun bolt at the girl, then rises. 

Leeza Antol moves up beside her, looking down at the crumpled figure. “She’s mostly unharmed, Colonel,” Cant says a hint of apology in her voice. 

Leeza nods. She reaches down, touching the unconscious girl on her cheek. _What could one girl mean to everyone, that they spend so much effort on finding her?_ “Get her up to my ship; to the meddroid. I think our job of filling labor levies is at a point where we can delegate. Let’s head for Scarif.”

+=+=+=+=+= 

Dav Kolan watches from a hidden alcove; the door cracked. He holds a bacta patch to his arm. As soon as the Imperials have left, he comes out and begins to make his way to the spaceport. His comm begins to beep. He curses again as he shuts it off.

**The Clone Wars**

Dait Gordo spits blood as he manages to use his bound hands to lever himself back to his knees, then his feet. He turns and glares at the two clones standing impassively in their armor.

The unarmored clone wipes his own blood away from underneath his nose. The three turn around and exit the cabin. 

He turns back to the dim figure sitting behind the large desk. He can only make out that the figure is human and wears a Republic uniform. “What do you want, dog?” he asks. 

A chuckle comes in a dry voice. A voice with a Core accent, but a hint of Outer Rim—Mando inflection in it. “Very good Mr. Gordo,” the voice says. “Your defensiveness tells me that everything that I have heard about you is true. Now sit down and show me what I have heard about your business sense is true.”

After a long moment, just enough to establish defiance, he sits.

The figure, a squat human with a thick neck and receding blonde hair, walks into the light. “I have a business proposition for you. One that could open up new markets, if you’re willing to change your business model.”

Gordo eyes the human. “You’re the one who got me access to Umbara during the invasion,” he muses. “Pity that upright Yularen threw me out of the theater.”

He hears another chuckle. “Yes, I am. You can call me Malikarus, if you like, or Admiral. I understand that you maintain contacts with the Zygerrian ruler. I’ve some information that may be of some use to him. It involves the clone army. I have a way to move prime units to him. Units that might not be fit for combat, but are fit for his purposes.”

“Really? What kind of units?” Gordo asks, his interest piqued in spite of himself.

Malikarus closes the distance to Gordo. Gordo is unable to move fast enough before his head snaps back from the hammer-like blow to his jaw. As is eyes refocus, he sees that the Admiral is calm. 

“Don’t play games with me, Umbaran. I haven’t logged your capture yet. We can see how well you might survive in vacuum.”

“So what’s in it for me, Admiral?” Gordo finally asks.

“Your life for one. A percentage of a market that could make you rich beyond even your meager dreams. All in exchange for information. For an introduction, if you will.”

“The Zygerrian is not very hospitable, ever since the Jedi broke up his little Togruta racket on Kiros. Although they did him a bit of a favor, by encouraging Dooku to murder his Queen because of her infatuation with one of them,” Gordo says, wiping blood from his mouth.

“Atai Molec strikes me as someone who looks at the bottom line. I think that he might like my ideas. It will probably increase his profits a thousandfold, without an appreciable increase in expenses.”

Gordo stares at Malikarus. “Yes, Admiral. But he might think that there is the distinct possibility might that you would bring another Republic task force to his doorstep.”

“You let me worry about that. You just worry about how to bring us together,” the human says.

After a moment of thought, Gordo asks, “What do you need?”

“Just do what you do best,” Malikarus says. “Broker information and access.” His gray eyes narrow. “Especially anything you can tell me about Malaky.”

“That might cost you extra,” Gordo replies, feeling his insides clinch. “Rumor has it that he has something to do with the Falleen. They are never a group known for their easy acceptance of people delving into their business. Nobody has actually seen him. They’ve only seen a shadowy figure on a holocom. It may even be a droid.”

“Find him,” is all that the Admiral says. “Everything you can find out.”

At a signal, two sets of gloved hands yank Gordo up from his seat. He grimaces as he wonders if playing all sides against each other will keep him alive.


	11. Bore Death from Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jostling among the Elder Houses of Alderaan, had no effect on the early Rebellion, after a certain point. The representatives of the Houses either were either kept out of the ‘know’, or enlisted quietly in the effort. Either option required that the amount of compartmentalization and secrecy that Bail Organa managed to enact, with only a few aides who were ‘anointed’, as those who were a part of the early movement were known, would have been staggering._
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> _At one time, especially early on, Bail, Queen Breha, and possibly Nola Vorserrie, were the only ones who knew all of the players on Alderaan._
> 
>  
> 
> Excerpt from Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest_ , _Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

Dorith Panteer sips his brandy and looks around at the small corner of the Council Club. His scrutiny at the other patrons ensures that he and his guests will not be disturbed in their discussions. He puts his drink down and takes a deep breath. 

“We all know why we’re here,” he says. “We are here because we care so much about the Mother.” The three men and one woman gaze back at him expectantly. “I think that it’s time for us to take a stand against the foolish policies of the Organas.” His eyes narrow. “Policies that could bring undue attention from the Empire.”

He hears the murmur among his colleagues from the Council of Graces. His eyes lock on the face of the representative of House Syrush, Jardin. The man’s burlwood features and mismatched eyes—one bright blue, the other green, stare at him, unreadable as always.

He forges ahead. “I know that we were all hopeful when Breha was elevated to the throne. That she would be the light for Alderaan and her people, just as Mazi was. But in the last few years, the marriage-alliance between House Organa and House Antilles has been a study in power grabs and collusion with other worlds. We’ve seen a jumped-up Naboo elevated to an ancient title and office, with no qualifications except for vague experience of service with two of Naboo’s queens.” The other four are silent, their expressions running the gamut from intent agreement, to unreadable skepticism, to abject boredom.

He sees a smirk flow over Dainet Weasleton’s features. She quickly suppresses it, returning to her look of boredom. She runs her hands through her auburn hair. He discounts her opinion, quickly. _A minor House. Only an Elder Family for about fifty years or so._

Dorith returns his gaze to the others. “Nola Vorserrie has moved us towards some risky policies. Risky for our liberty, and risky for our autonomy. The selection of her Corellian lover as our interim Peacekeeper-General without the Council’s advice and consent. This outright alignment with Corellia—,”

Syrush interrupts, “You seem to have profited from the recent agreement with the Corellian Engineering Corporation, Mandal Motors, and the Mon Calamari,” he says quietly, “as have all of you.”

Panteer stares at him for a moment. He then paints a tight smile on his face. “You are correct, your Grace. However, we were not consulted on this deal.”

“I don’t know why you’re fixated on Vorserrie, Dorith,” Jardin Syrush says. “She was floating in bacta, fighting for her life, after taking a bullet for the Viceroy when the deal was made.” His eyes narrow. “You seem to be fixating on her social life. Could that be because she so publicly rejected your offers of marriage?”

Dorith is about to reply, when a proxy does for him. “I think that is uncalled for,” Torin Baliss says smoothly, his pasty features shaping into their usual smile. “Lord Panteer is not doing this from a sense of personal insult. He does it for a love of Mother Alderaan.”

Syrush snorts. “Well, it’s amazing that Panteer’s lips aren’t moving while you are speaking, Baliss,” he says. “How does it feel to have his hand up your ass pulling the strings?”

Jat Thul, the youngest member, jumps in. “There’s no need to be vulgar, Syrush. But what do you expect from the lapdogs of the Organa clique and the Old Republic?”

Syrush stands up, his fists clinched. “I think that I’ve listened to enough sedition and insults for one day.” He nods to Lady Weaselton. “Thank you for the meal and the hospitality, your Grace. I’ll see myself out.”

As he leaves the small alcove, Thul looks at Dorith, his blond forelock flopping over his forehead. “Do you think he will go blabbing to the Organas?”

Dorith is thoughtful for a moment. He shakes his head. “Let him. It will only be in our favor if the Organas act on any information from this meeting. They will be seen as trying to suppress the legislative process. We’ve not discussed any action that could be seen as treasonous.”

He falls back into his own thoughts as the three remaining Graces continue their discussion. Thoughts of the distant past and his grandfather’s oppression by the Organas and the Antilles. 

His mind quickly travels away from the thoughts of his promised birthright from his grandfather—of being the first King of Alderaan in centuries. A birthright altered by his discussions with certain Imperial officials. Discussions that could lead him to a more powerful position. _Moff Panteer?_

In spite of what Baliss had said, as always, his mind goes to a young woman’s face. A young woman who is the only person to ever say ‘no’ to him.

+=+=+=+=+=

His Grace, Dorith Panteer, representative of his House in the Council of Graces, walks into the lobby of the Grande Aldera. He rubs his hands together in anticipation of what the outcome of this meeting would be. A wife—one that is young and not from his social strata, but one with the ear and connections to his Family’s traditional enemies and threats. He stops as he sees the young woman sitting in a comfortable chair, looking out at the hotel’s formal gardens. 

He smiles. She is dressed in a high-necked, almost virginal dark blue dress—a dress trimmed in bright silver. Her dark brown hair is tied back from her sharp features, in a small queue at the back of her neck. He is thinking too hard of his conquest to notice the pain in her features, as she rubs her abdomen absently. Nor does he see the tiny puncture wound in her neck, still healing even after three months of being on this world.

She stands as his reflection is seen in the window. She bows from the waist, then waits expectantly. Dorith shakes his head and takes a hand in his. He kisses her on the cheek. He doesn’t feel the flinch. She wastes no time, reaching down into a pocket on her dark traveling cloak. She pulls out a small velvet box. His heart clinches as she hands it to him.

“I’m flattered by your offer, your Grace, but I must respectfully decline. I appreciate that you’ve offered me the protection of your marriage bed and home. But I disagree that I’m in need of protection. I’ve always taken care of myself. I wouldn’t be dependent on you for my protection.” A broad smile, confident, but wistful flows over her face. “I’ve been taught, in a manner that I won’t go into here, to protect myself and others.”

He is silent as he tries to recover from the blow. The blow of rejection. “Do you know what you’re refusing?” he asks, his words sharp in their response. 

“Yes. I do, your Grace. You offer me security so that I can be a brood mare for you. So I can breed a future Queen for House Panteer. A House that has been so antagonistic to the family that has taken me in, cared for me, and helped me heal, in body and in spirit.” She looks down, then back out at the garden, her eyes distant. “The joke would be on you. I’m not sure that I can even give you children.”

He tries to calm as he looks her up and down. He realizes that the colors of her dress have more significance than matching her skin, hair, eyes, and height.

They are the colors of House Organa. 

“So you have thrown your lot in with Organa and Antilles?” he spits out. His fists clinch. She takes a step back, closer to the chair with the traveling cloak. She rests her hand against the side of the garment, close to a large pocket on the inside. 

Nola smiles at him. A smile of relief and of serenity. “I see that I made the right choice,” she says. “You’re showing what others have described to me.”

“You would listen to gossip about an Elder Family on your host world? You, whose status is so tenuous on this world?” he shouts. She looks around at the startled gazes from the other patrons. 

He forges ahead, moving closer into her space. “You will regret this, woman. When I take down the Organa ilk from their lofty perch, I will make sure that you fall hard—first.” He can feel himself quivering with anger.

He lifts his hand. In a quick motion, her hand dips into the pocket on the traveling cloak hanging on her chair. His eyes widen as she pulls the grip of a small blaster out—just far enough so he can see it.

Nola says nothing, merely looks at him. A look mirrored many years ago in the eyes of a much smaller, but no less strong woman, at their last meeting. A look of contempt. Contempt coupled with pity.

Dorith Panteer snaps back from the memory of three years ago. He gets up and stalks out of the meeting.

Unbeknownst to him, another watches him leave from another building. Jessta Verlaine smiles as she looks at her holopad, at her desk in the press room of the State Building.

+=+=+=+=+=

Gobi Glie looks up from the weapon that he is repairing to the sound of bright laughter in the cave. _A rare sound these days._ He smiles as he sees a half dozen children of various colors bury a larger, orange, blue, and white version in a tackle. His smile turns wistful as he sees that the fearsome rebel known as Fulcrum’s clear voice is the leader of the giggling.

His eyes widen as he realizes that Numa, solemn serious Numa, actually leads the assault and the laughter while bouncing up and down on the rebel. The laughter dies as all of the younglings seize Fulcrum in a deep hug. 

He abandons the weapon with a sigh and walks over to the pile. He looks down and extends his hand. A strong arm with hints of orange and white reaches out from the pile of youth. He takes the arm and heaves. The young Twi’leks fall away with another crescendo of giggles. They start to move towards their target, when Numa grows a thunderous look on her face. She stamps her foot and points elsewhere.

The younglings wisely follow the instructions of their Commander. Gobi smiles again as he remembers her as an even younger child. Her intent expression as she helped the two clone troopers who had adopted her during the siege. His eyes grow sad as those thoughts lead him to his dead.

Fulcrum notices. She kisses Numa on her forehead and sends her off behind her cohort. She touches Gobi’s shoulder. “You’re thinking about Isval, aren’t you?” she asks, her blue eyes soft. 

“Among others,” he says. “Cham thinks of her a lot. She was his right hand. She was a good person, but she had her demons. The memories and pain of being a slave were too much. We learned later that she would go to the cities; would seduce and murder random men—Imperials, collaborators, whatever. Quite gruesomely, it turns out.”

He sees Fulcrum’s eyes grow wide, just before she looks away. “I can’t blame her, after what she and those she young women she rescued went through,” he says. “But it was not my way. I tried to get Cham to cast her out for a bit, to go off with that Zeltron, Laken, you rescued.” Gobi notices her eyes grow thunderous for a moment, then sad again.

He pulls her into an embrace, surprising her. She does not push him away. “We all have those we regret, even as we mourn and miss them, Gobi,” she whispers. They stand in the midst of the cave for several moments. Cham Syndulla finds them both still standing in their embrace. Gobi watches as Fulcrum lifts her head from his shoulder and looks at the General.

“It’s time, Fulcrum,” he says quietly. 

Gobi smirks as he sees the three fighters behind him. Each bearing two large buckets of a foul smelling collection of near-solids.

Fulcrum curses.

+=+=+=+=+=

Shyla Merricope takes a deep breath as she exits the elevator on the upper floor of the Imperial Complex. She eyes the two black-clad, armored bodyguards standing, their weapons at the ready. She walks up to the droid at the reception desk.

“Shyla Merricope, to see Delilah Sal,” she says calmly.

“Advisor Sal is properly addressed as her Excellency, citizen Merricope,” the droid says in a supercilious tone. 

Shyla narrows her eyes. “Well, asshole, I’m the Diktat-Emeritus of Corellia. I’m properly addressed as her Excellency as well. So stick that in your goddamned processor and chew on it,” she says “Especially since I knew her when she was a snotnosed Apprentice Constable for CorSec. One who didn’t get past that rank, I might add. Would you rather I addressed her as such?” Her smirk grows. “Plus, I’ve seen her naked. Want more details?”

She hears high pitched bursts of code from the two armored behemoths behind her. She half expects a hand clamped on her shoulder. Or worse.

She sees the processing lights of the droid blink. “The Advisor will see you now,” the droid intones. 

Shyla moves past the desk towards the door. At the last second, she turns and blows a kiss to the two troopers. Predictably, they do not react, their buckets expressionless. As she turns to enter the door, she smiles to herself. _Daaineran, my girl_ , she thinks, _you’re a bad influence_.

Delilah Sal stands in front of the desk. She rolls her eyes and grins. Shyla walks up to her. Delilah looks her up and down. “Well, Shy. You sure have loosened up a bit since you left the Palace,” she says. Her hand drifts up and over the older woman’s chest, to her cheek. 

Shyla says nothing, merely eyes her coolly. After a moment, Delilah drops her hand. Shyla relaxes, then reaches over and gives her a quick kiss.

Her dark eyes lock with Sal’s. “So how did you get into bed with Black Sun?” Shyla fires without preamble.

She sees the Imperial’s eyes flash with anger. “You’ve some nerve, Merricope, coming in here and throwing that poodoo around,” she snarls. 

_So much for the kissy face_ , Shyla thinks.

“Careful, Del,” Shyla says, raising her hand. “I know your shortcomings. Seen them all. Watched the Legate fire you for gross incompetence and suspicion of corruption.”

Delilah doesn’t back down. “So what makes you say that? About the Falleen?” she asks. 

“Someone who would know detected the pheromones coming from a meeting in this building.”

Sal’s eyes narrow. “Let me guess. Draq’s Zeltron bastard. Who I hear you’re fucking on a regular basis.”

Shyla doesn’t rise at the riposte, merely broadens her smile. “You should try it, dear. It’s remarkably relaxing. Good for the soul, as she’s one of the most loving and honest individuals I know.” She moves closer to the Advisor. “Let me repeat. Black Sun. On my world? What have you gotten yourself into?”

“Careful, Merricope, yourself. A word from me and those two Deathtroopers will burn you down without batting an eye.”

“Dear, I’ve been threatened by your boss, Palpatine. Probably only a matter of time before he finds an excuse to end me; before I’m screaming out my life while an execution-droid injects those neural torches into my skull. A pissant like you gives me no pause whatsoever.”

Delilah says nothing. 

“I don’t think Thomree, who you’re probably stabbing in the back, would appreciate your little machinations with scumbags.”

Delilah’s face twists with anger, an expression that mars her normally placid features. “I’m ISB. I don’t have to tell you a goddamned thing.” She jerks her head at the door. “Get the hell out.”

Shyla smiles. “Does this mean I don’t get a goodbye kiss? Can’t tune you up in your office like you used to for me after you got fired and went to work for the opposition legislators?”

“Get out,” Sal repeats.

Shyla turns and leaves. As the door closes, another opens. 

Tera Moj stands framed in the door. 

“You heard?” Sal says. 

Moj smiles, a fearsome expression on her features. “I did. Should’ve known that Zeltron scum would cause problems. Perhaps I should live up to my heritage and feast on her heart.”

“Might cause more trouble. She is very close to Bel Iblis, who could cause problems for us.” Sal’s eyes harden. “To your bosses as well.”

After a moment, the Falleen warrior nods. “Very well. We’ll do it your way. If we go any further, we might start with that woman. Less problems if a washed-up politician goes away. The next step will be to use the little girl—the Elector-Presumptive.” She walks up to Delilah, shoving her gently. “At the end of this I will hear the Zeltron screaming in my roasting pit. I despise them.”

+=+=+=+=+=

The stormtrooper Sergeant wipes the eyepieces of his bucket for about the fiftieth time. He turns and looks at the rest of his patrol. Even in their full armor, he can tell that his squad is dragging. The filthy animals that they ride—the blurrgs—don’t look much better, a testament to the effects of the sandstorm. He takes a deep breath as he sees the beginning of the storm’s retreat. A slight movement from his left front catches his eye. He pulls his rangefinder down. A dozen or so natives trudge towards him. He zooms in closer. They are all armed and four of them appear to be carrying a litter between them.

“Incoming. 4102, scan them,” he says. 

“On it, Sergeant,” the woman says. After a moment, she nods. “They’re broadcasting proper loyalist militia recognition signals.” She puts her hand to the earpiece of her helmet. “They have intel. A dead suspected spy and the remains of four troopers.”

“Call them in. Let Command know what we have got. If I’m right, I think we may have found our missing patrol.”

It only takes another half-hour for the two groups to close. Both groups remain wary, their weapons not quite pointed at one another, but at the ready. The Sergeant notices that the four bring their burden up. As they close to within three meters, his entire squad begin to cough and fumble to turn off the intake filters of their buckets. The blurrgs begin to scream and buck.

“What the hell is that smell?” he asks. “Valorum’s balls, that’s foul.”

He hears a high pitched snort from the apparent leader of the ragtag band. All of them wear the Imperial cog on their clothing, as well as hold well-cared-for Imperial weapons at the ready. The Sergeant notices that they all wear cloths around their noses and mouths. “Yeah, she is a bit ripe. We stopped noticing a few days ago. We found her near a Vev’s ejection pod. Apparently your boys and girls had put her up against the wall and shot her. She’s been out there in the elements and with the critters for a couple of weeks at least.” He runs his hand over his lekku. “Togruta female, in what is left of an Imperial flight suit.”

“What about our patrol?”

“Found them along side her. Apparently some rebels did for them right after she was executed. The rest of my group stayed with them and set up our camp. Their bodies will be protected.”

“How come you didn’t call?” the comm/tech asks. 

“Couldn’t get a signal out. Your junk up there interferes with everything going up.”

“Let’s see her.”

“Wouldn’t recommend it, Sarge,” the Twi’lek says. “She’s been chewed up and the smell is worse.”

The Sergeant stares at the loyalist. “I’m an Imperial stormtrooper. A corpse doesn’t bother me,” he finishes. Scarce are the words out of his mouth than the loyalists pull the blanket off of the corpse.

Several of the troopers, their squad leader included, yank their buckets off and empty their stomachs. The Sergeant can feel the contempt rolling off of his comm/tech. He steels himself to look again. 

The Togruta, and she is just recognizable as such by the remnants of her lekku and a broken montral—barely recognizable as female, in fact—lies on the litter. Her body has been ravaged. The features of her face are a mass of blood and tissue. One lekku lies severed. Her chest shows the effects of several blasters aimed at it. A mass of entrails rests on her abdomen. 

The stench. The stench can be almost felt in all of its power, even through the bucket’s filters. 

Another trooper loses his lunch. The Sergeant fights his own bile down. The comm/tech looks at her fellows with disgust. 

“Burn that goddamned thing,” the Sergeant says.

He notices that TK-4102 has her finger to the earpiece of her helmet again. “No can do, Sergeant,” she says. “An ISB ship just signaled command. Claimed the body with a Priority _Aurek_. They’re on their way in.” 

The Sergeant closes his eyes behind his helmet. “Then find us a body bag,” he says through gritted teeth. “Where do we need to be?”

“The _Dragonsword_ is coming down. A transport’s on its way. Nobody is to touch the corpse.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” The Sergeant turns away. 

“What about our blood-price?” the Twi’lek leader asks.

The Sergeant doesn’t even turn around. “Talk to Command. Above my paygrade.”

As the troopers turn away, Gobi Glie watches them from the back of the scrum. He smiles behind his mask. The smile fades as he touches the ‘corpse’ on her shoulder. 

The drug only has a few hours before it actually kills her. He can only hope that her ‘arrangements’ are on time.

+=+=+=+=+=

Drop takes a deep breath as the stars slow to pinpricks against the velvet. He shakes his head as he sees the wedge shapes of varying sizes in orbit around the dusty planet. He sighs as he thinks of his past. He, Croft, and their commandos had never made it to Ryloth. He allows himself a deep grin. _Visited a lot of other garden spots in the galaxy, though._

He hears Tamsin’s dry voice at the control station. “Okay, let’s see if these IDs work that your antisocial little shit in my wardroom got for us.” He hears the heat in her voice as she looks at the other figure standing against the backdrop of the stars. “As well as our other ‘specialist.’

Drop turns and looks at the young woman. She stands behind the pilot, dressed in an Imperial naval uniform. Her now-black and brown curls hang from beneath the cap centered on her head. She returns his look appraisingly, a hungry look in her eyes. 

He looks down ruefully. “Never thought I would be wearing this shit again,” he says. He tries to adjust the plastoid of the stormtrooper armor. Armor that is not exactly custom made for Null-ARC size.

“You almost look the part, bud,” comes a voice from behind. 

He grits his teeth as he turns towards the figure. A tall figure with a shaven head. A figure that had met them in his old ship, packed to the gills with Imperial uniforms and a Pantoran slicer who communicated only by text. He closes his eyes.

The ship had also taken his daughter away, on her first solo hyperspace jump, back to the Five Brothers to meet another young girl. He sees Tamsin’s eyes soften, probably at his look. 

“She’ll be fine, big guy. You taught her well,” the captain says quietly. She crosses over and places her hand on his chest. “She’s got good genes. Probably from her mother’s side.”

A snort comes from the other who looks more at ease in an Imperial uniform. The interloper turns. Drop looks him up and down. The figure is clad in an ISB field uniform and armor, including the helmet under his arm. He lifts the helmet to his head.

A glowing red eye stares back at him from the left side of the sardonic face, in the midst of a metal and plastic casing. A warm green eye stares from the right.

Drop knows that an angry scar circles the head around where the hairline would be.“You got something else to say, sweet-cheeks?” he asks. 

A smirk flows over the features, the right eye staring at him. Drop also knows that both eyes are masked over the soulless black of the original shade. “Glad you noticed, _Vod_ ,” he says. Drop’s eyes widen at the word. The word of someone who might’ve fought and lived with clonetroopers. “But, no, I don’t. I’m apparently the comic relief. I was just minding my own business, getting shot at because I had to fall for a line of bullshit from someone in my bed, when that same someone calls me up and feeds me another line of bullshit about pulling somebody else’s cute little ass out of the poodoo she finds herself in.” His smirk grows. “Somebody else who’s also apparently getting bored by him in bed on a regular basis.”

Drop’s eyes narrow at the man’s words. He recalls the name he had given when he came on board. _Trigger._

A chime sounds from the main screen. Drop rolls his eyes at the text. _If we are all through with looking longingly in each other’s eyes, could we activate the ident that I worked my ass off on, so I can get back to my apparent lot in life as an Outer Rim pirate?_

“Whatever, Ano. I think some of Baldrick’s personality is rubbing off on you,” he says, “the bad parts.” He grins. “Or maybe Lassa’s.”

The screen is blank, until the image of a computerized hand, clinched in a fist with the back towards him, slowly raises the middle finger.

_Definitely Phygus._

“They’re hailing us, Skipper,” says Obie Helm, standing over at communications. His Imperial cap rests above his overlarge ears atop his bright ginger hair. 

Tamsin nods. “Showtime.” She takes a deep breath. “This is the ISB cruiser _Provocateur_ , on approach. Broadcasting ID and authorization.”

A female voice comes over the air. Drop sees the would-be ISB agent stiffen, as his own heart clinches at the near-familiarity of the voice. “ID confirmed,” the voice says, “I’ll be glad when you can take this stinking-ass corpse off of my ship. We’ll never get this smell out of here.”

“Is this the Captain?” Tamsin asks.

“Yes. Lieutenant Commander Rae Sloane.”

Tamsin looks at Drop and their specialist. She cuts the pickup. “We may have a problem.”

“Just one?” Trigger asks. 

“Yeah. Fulcrum’s briefing on who her grifter took the chip from—all of the data said it was a male.”

“Well, we’re also going to see how well my pretty disguise is going to hold up. I know Rae.” He looks away. “Through her sister,” he whispers.

Drop nods, thinking of a young naval officer from his past. A naval Captain who had did her damndest to keep he, his brothers, and her Jedi alive. A number who included one now known as Bryne Covenant. He closes his eyes briefly. As he opens them, Drop and the agent lock eyes in understanding. _Marching far away._

Tamsin opens the channel. “We were expecting someone else,” she says.

“Yeah, well. I didn’t expect to be here, either. Just a jobbing captain, until a replacement is found. Talonga got promoted. Got an ImpStar carting some ISB bigwig around on Ganthel.”

All three are silent. “Very well. Stand by to receive us,” Tamsin finally says. She kills the transmission.

“We need to get on that ship. Fulcrum’s drug will run out if somebody doesn’t get her the antidote,” Drop says. 

“Master of the obvious, Drop,” Trigger says, dryly.

+=+=+=+=+=

The young woman’s eyes tear as she holds the man who means as much to her as her own Master. His face, despite the blaster wound and the fall from the commanding height to the street below, is as peaceful as she has ever known it to be in two years of fighting and living closely with him. 

She senses the fading residual of his Force sense as she holds him and whispers his name. Her montrals ring with approaching footsteps and another deeper cry. She looks up at her Master, her eyes now brimming with sadness as she looks up at him.

She can say nothing in response to his grief.

Her mind begins to scream at the memory. She leaps up, struggling against the torrent that she is a drowning in. A torrent of...?

_Vinyl?_

A cascade of foul smells assaults her nostrils as she struggles against the covering that has swallowed her. The foul smell tricks a memory, as she fights the bile. She jerks up. 

Air pours into the bag. Her chest heaves as she sits fully up.

An Imperial in armor and a helmet covering part of his face stands over her, looking at her wide eyes, as she swipes her hands over her eyes, sweeping the mass of makeup away. 

Or least one eye. His left is covered by the red glow of an electronic prosthesis. The right one makes her heart flip.

She shakes her head as she realizes that this idiot is a few inches taller than her own idiot with the powerful green eyes. Her fist closes in the air by reflex.

The figure begins to choke as his airway closes. She hears a gasp of a word as he drops what was in his hands and clutches his neck. She stops as her eyes lock on the small syringe on the table. 

He manages to lift his helmet up, displaying the angry scar. She slumps, as he does.

“Holy shit, girl. Between you and your boyfriend, you’re going to kill me. You better be good in the sack, at least.”

“No complaints, so far,” she says, her voice raw with disuse. “What the hell are you doing here, Trigger?” 

“Rescuing your ass. At the request of said boyfriend. Don’t know if he was worth it. How the hell did you wake up? We were afraid you might be in the Long Sleep ‘cause we couldn’t get here in time to give you the antidote for the vitals suppressor.”

“Jedi shit,” is all that she says as she fights her way out of the bodybag. She looks down at her middle, twisting her face in disgust at the mass of guts. She shoves them from her, revealing no wounds. She smiles as she sees what looks like her lek, with a different pattern lying next to her. She thinks of a little girl, painstakingly painting a length of blurrg intestine to resemble her severed lek. She reaches up to the remnant on her head and touches a device behind it. Hers miraculously regenerates and changes the pattern as the masking hologram is cut. Several wounds on her body and face, those that are not produced by actual makeup, disappear.

“Come on. Change in plans. We need to get you off of here,” Trigger says. 

“Wait,” she exclaims. “I need to find the—.”

“Too late. They changed Captains on you. We have to get out of here, as discreetly as possible, as the new Captain is somebody that might recognize me as a dead man, even under this get- up.”

“I almost kissed you when I saw the green eye,” she says, ruefully.

Dav’s face softens even under the disguise. “One reason we did this. So either of us could use it if we needed to.”

He lifts his comm and punches some buttons. “That should disable the cameras. Let’s go.”

He shoulders her in support as she stumbles. He wrinkles his nose. “To bad we couldn’t stop and hose you off. This ain’t exactly an alluring scent.” He grins. “Tamsin said that you helped get the weird-ass colors out of her hair; maybe she’ll help you get the ass smell off of you. I think you might gag a maggot, right now.”

“I’m sure some people might not complain,” Ahsoka says.

“Yeah, well, Covenant has low standards.”

“I know. Why else would he have slept with you?” she says, some of the old snark returning.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dani Faygan rings the doorchime to the Diktat’s suite at the Avalon Hotel. She grins as she remembers Shyla talking about one of the perks that she had been voted by the Assembly after her ousting from the Palace. _Guess they felt sorry for me being forced out_. Even her successor as Diktat, Dupas Thomree had wasted no time in signing the bill into law.

The door remains closed after two more attempts. Her eyes narrow as she checks her chronometer. She is here at the appointed time. 

Dani sets the Alderaani takeout bag on the floor and looks furtively around. She lifts a small case from her back pocket and pulls out a tiny tool. She grins as she thanks the _Omri_ for her less than conventional training at Covenant House.

Sixty seconds later, the door opens. All thoughts of dinner are lost as she sees Shyla lying on the floor in her silk dressing gown. Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t move. 

Dani rushes over to the ex-politician. A Toniray flute lies abandoned on the floor, the contents dampening the rich rug. She sees movement from Shyla’s face. The woman’s eyes lock on hers. The brown orbs flit towards the window, then the abandoned glass. 

Dani checks Shyla’s vitals. Her pulse is thready; her respirations shallow. Dani yanks her comm out and hits a switch.

“This is Chief, uh, Major Faygan, CSR-005. Person down at this location. Forty-seven year old human female—possible poisoning. Conscious, but paralyzed. Move!”

She clicks off and hits another switch. Before the person on the other end can growl, she silences him. “Draq’, I think Shyla may have been poisoned. Have Colum get a crime scene and investigations unit that he trusts to her suite. Keep the Imps out of it. I think she said she was going to visit Sal about the Falleen.”

As she clicks off, she takes Shyla’s hand in hers. She checks her pulse, then reaches down and touches her lips to Shyla’s.

The lips are ice cold. Dani looks up towards the ceiling, willing the paramed droids to walk through the door.


	12. Meglann: To See if Time was there -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In many mythologies of Hell in the galaxy, there is a figure who acts as one who bears the dead to their final destination. In the Corellian mythos of the Nine Hells, the figure has a different role—that of messenger, or conduit. One who passes knowledge of the dead between the realms; to help them find their final destination. Seoladan, the conduit, may also serve to bring them to the appropriate realm, whether willingly or unwillingly. She also passes knowledge and wisdom between the rulers of the Hells, and settles disputes over souls._
> 
>  
> 
> _She is also known as the Witness-Bearer._
> 
>  
> 
> _The Pocket Guide to Corellian Mythology_

Bryne Covenant curses as the stone of the ancient roof digs into his ass. The _beskar_ -infused cloth keeps the part from being punctured, but does nothing for anything digging in. He grins as he thinks of his lot in life. _Nola gets to enjoy the fine wine and food, I get to sit up on a roof in full_ beskar’gam _watching her partake._

He shakes his head as he sobers, of what had brought him to this roof, and of what had brought Nola to the rooftop cafe he was watching. He thinks of how their mission here had become more urgent—possibly even more desperate with a comm from Dav Kolan with news that Leeza Antol had stuck her aquiline nose into their attempt to aid Meglann. A message that Meglann was in the hands of the Empire, even if those particular hands were not exactly interested in advancing the precepts of the New Order.

Another relayed comm from Ahsoka had sent Dav Kolan to another part of the galaxy; although her request didn’t specify who came. Just for someone who could pass for an ISB asshole.

Bryne smiles. _Guess that could’ve been me, too. At least the asshole part_. His smile fades. He knew that Ahsoka would want him to focus on Meglann. For himself, not just for her. _I guess this is part of that growing up we both are supposedly moving towards._

A brief burst of breeze off of the Bay ruffles his hair, bringing an assault to his nostrils of a powerful, spicy essence. The smell brings him back to the first and only time he had visited Raxus Secundus. An all expenses-paid trip to the nearby capital city, Raxulon, rather than Tamwith Bay, the Pearl of the Confederacy. Capital-world of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Sworn enemies of the Republic.

Covenant sighs and pulls his old Republic-style bucket onto his head, in an attempt to dispel the memories with the essence. As his heads-up display boots up, he drops the carbine scope he had been monitoring the cafe with. His mind travels to the approach over the surface, via Raxulon.

His memory recalls an oddly-shaped building on that approach, apparently abandoned, with a large hole in the side. He had run his hand over the console in front of him; over an obvious repair mark. A large hole once made by the bow of this very ship, by a young naval officer, gambling to save him and his in a desperate last ditch effort. 

He looks down and away from his HUD. He closes his eyes as he remembers the cost of that last visit. His half-brother and his soon-to-be wife, both torn by Force lightning from the woman’s uncle, Count Dooku. Ala Gainsefield’s face slashed with a lightsaber to save her new, improbable love. Daaineran Faygan’s near-death from a mind controlled clone. A precursor to the millions of his brothers activated to kill their Jedi. Of he and another knight facing certain death as they prepared to face Count Dooku, one of the most famous duelists of the Order.

He smiles at other results. His Sergeant-Major, Drop, now known as Tarre Tredecima and that other Jedi knight’s love survived another year or two, with a beautiful, growing daughter as a legacy. A daughter born of an unnatural, involuntary experiment, but a daughter loved nonetheless. Of the six years of love that his brother Garen and Ala had together, resulting in a another legacy of love. A solemn little girl, with the gray eyes of the Blackthorns, now the heir to the Electoral Signet of Corellia—the responsibility of the most loving person in the universe, Daaineran Faygan.

He thinks not only of his losses, but of the victories as well. Victory mostly embodied in the blue eyes and inborn Smirk of his hunt-sister, Ahsoka Tano—a victory that she is even, improbably alive.

“I can feel you fidgeting from here, King,” comes the dry voice of Nola Vorserrie, once the Hand of the Queen of Alderaan. Now, apparently a fugitive from that same world. He shakes the doldrums of his memories away at the lightness of her voice. Something that had been missing for quite some time.

“Yeah, well, my ass is pretty tender. It needs care and comfort after watching you consume hors d'oeuvres and your fifth umbrella drink. Not exactly what I envisioned when coming to the Pearl of the Confederacy.”

A snort comes over his earpiece. “Well, if you quit your bitching, I might kiss it and make it better, later tonight.”

“Is that what you do for Fulcrum?” he asks, a tiny bit of his own snark in his voice. 

“Only once a year. She doesn’t whine as much as you do.” He closes his eyes as he again revels in the lightness in her voice. A part of him wonders if it is just an act, to take his mind off of Meglann and Ahsoka. He opens his eyes, focusing on the sight of her seated at a table in the back—a table that she can see the entrance from, as well as near the open air of the streets below. He wonders if the lightness is forced for another reason; forced to take her own mind off of her uncertain status, as well as his problems.

He falls silent, if only for a moment. “Sure she doesn’t,” he whispers, “unless there aren’t any small rodents around to keep her occupied.”

There is a brief snort of laughter. “You had to go there. Now I am thinking about when I have kissed her,” she says.

“It ain’t the kissing. It’s what happens a few minutes after she’s eaten them that always gets me.”

“Come on, bud. She told me that you’re the one who gets gassy after eating _them’iar.”_

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Last Word. I would never commit an indiscretion such as that. Plus I would never get caught eating those damned things.”

“Keep thinking that, Tempest. I’m sure that she has proof.”

They fall silent for again. “So tell me again why you’re meeting Gordo here, Nola?” he asks. 

“Ano and Phygus confirmed Dav’s story. Gordo was a Separatist back in the day. The thing that they found was that he didn’t exactly declare himself to the Empire after it rose for the amnesty.” 

He watches her take a sip of the umbrella drink, return it to the table. “He got pretty close to them. Worked on Bothuwui Proper for a while. Pretty good informant for somebody in the higher ups. They apparently didn’t ask too many questions.”

“Great, No-no. Why didn’t you tell me we were meeting an information broker for the Imps? You planning on going ahead and putting your pretty neck in a noose?”

“Apparently he doesn’t work for the Imps any more. The person he was being a weasel for fell from power. I think he knows a few things, though.” She looks at the rooftop. He can see the confident smile. “You and your new boy-toy had something to do with that fall.”

He is silent as he remembers Kolan’s face, after he had killed an Imperial moff. An instant before the Moff would’ve shot the ISB agent.

“So what is your approach?”

“Combination of play-acting, and leverage. Learned a few things from reading between the lines. To him, I’m a shady little government official looking to change careers.”

He is pretty sure that she ignores his sigh over the pickup; that she can’t see his furrowed brows. _Your legend hits a little too close to home, No-no_.

He shakes his head as she continues. “Think I can use the information that was being held over him to help him see the error of his ways. Especially when it comes to diner owners that we know and love.”

“So you’re going to blackmail him.”

“That’s such a nasty word, Tempest. I prefer extortion.”

“Could the fact that you are wearing a, _ahem_ , little black thing that’s cut down to your navel, help as well?” he says, the grin evident in his voice.

“Perhaps. A little birdie told me that he is quite taken with human women of a certain type,” she says, refusing to rise to the bait. 

“Let me guess. Inordinately tall women with dark, almost black eyes, a no-bullshit-tolerated-look on their face, and a genetic predisposition for having to always get the last word?”

“I don’t have—,” she starts. “You forget. I am a trained Handmaiden of Naboo. I can do winsome and seductive.”

“Yeah, if you have your cute little Handmaiden blaster pointed at their—.”

“Well stud, it’s worked on you before,” is her rejoinder. “I didn’t need the blaster.”

“Yeah, but everyone tells me I am easy.”

She is quiet for a moment. He looks through his HUD. 

“Got a possible, King,” she says. “There’s a human male taking a bit of interest in me. Little bit more than trying to figure out if I am wearing underwear or not.” He can feel the smirk in her voice. “I can provide that info if you need,” she finishes. 

“Don’t need to. I checked you out with the tactical display.” She smiles in the HUD, as if she knows that he is lying.

“Back to the looky-loo,” she says. “He has a comm in his ear. He might be the advance team.”

Bryne peers through the HUD’s rangefinder. He grins at what he sees. “Don’t worry about him, dear.” His eyes narrow as they lock on someone else. “Got other things to be concerned about,” he says.

“Yep,” she replies calmly. “Tall, pale, and loathsome just walked in.”

“Showtime,” he says, to no one in particular.

+=+=+=+=+=

_The young woman sleeps. On the back of her eyelids, she sees her uncle slumped in a chair next to a bed. A figure lies on the medbed, his dark features still and at peace for the first time in months. The preteen-self of the sleeping woman knows that her second uncle no longer has to struggle for breath against the onslaught of tiny fibers. She runs over to the bed and takes his cold hand and places it against her cheek. Her tears run in small rivulets against the hands. She feels warmer hands circle her chest, pulling her gently away from the dead man. She looks up into her uncle’s bearded face, his own tear-streaked cheeks drying finally. He touches her face. She turns and gives one last look at Islan Florlin-Helt, as she stifles the sob. She is twelve years old. It is time to leave childhood behind._

Meglann wakens with a start. She realizes that she floats in a blue-tinged viscous substance. She starts to panic, them calms as she realizes she is not drowning. A mask forces air into her lungs and recycles what she expels. She feels the tension flow from her mind; her body is suspended by a waistbelt attached to the top of the chamber. 

Meglann winces as she moves her left shoulder. She looks down and sees the tissues melding together over a wound. She fights the bile down. As she does, a metallic object moves into the edge of her vision. The object, about the size of a trashcan, places something against the glass. She feels waves of energy move over her body, making her eyelids grow heavy.

Her last thought before she surrenders to the wave-generator is a memory. A memory of whose hands she is in.

~=~=~=~=~=

Leeza Lardai-Antol watches as the young woman slumps against the suspension belt in the bacta tank, sleeping once again. She tries to discern what could be so special about this young woman that Secor had risked his connections trying to locate her. She grins. The young woman is attractive, with open, warm features. She does not fit what Leeza knows of his usual tastes, although Secor has had the same flexibility that most people have in society—especially if the objects of his lust have less power than him. 

Leeza shakes the thoughts away, as she thinks on how she can take advantage of her possession of the young woman. She hears the door to the medbay open. The measured steps of the Captain of the Stardestroyer, Georg Talonga marks the entrant.

She turns, nods at his salute. “We have entered Scarif orbit, Advisor,” he says in his strange, high pitched voice. “Your clearance has been granted, from Imperial Center. You and a few of your entourage may go down to the surface, but we’ll have to park in the atmosphere over the main island. There does appear to be shore-leave facilities on a chain of islands a ways from the main complex.” He says this in an even, rather than hopeful tone.

Leeza nods. “Very well Captain. As soon as it is practicable and we’re cleared, you may start rotations.”

He bows his head. “Thank you, Colonel. The crew will be most appreciative. We did check as you asked. Governor Secor is on Coruscant.”

“Very well. I’ll remain on the ship for the time being, until my guest awakens.”

The meddroid trundles open. “Begging your pardon, Advisor,” the droid intones. “The patient is ready to come out of the bacta.”

“Clean her up and take her to my quarters. Commander Lardai-Antol will be there.”

Leeza turns and watches as the young Alderaani rises from the fluid.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola turns her attention to the Umbaran making a slow circuit of the outdoor cafe. She slows her heartbeat, preparing herself for the exposure and retrieval of the information. Ano Lessi, Riyo Chuchi’s pet slicer, had gleaned the nugget of information from the employee of a Raxian official who might have been involved in Meglann’s capture. 

A bit of dirt that had come up in casual conversation about Gordo’s Imperial contacts. A bit of dirt that might mean the difference of freedom for the young Alderaani who is foremost in everyone’s thoughts. An ordinary young woman trying to make a go of her own business, her own life; who had made all of their lives less dark, in one way or another, especially the operative known as Fulcrum. A young woman who might be paying the price just for knowing them. For knowing what they are trying to do.

Nola finishes her drink and rises. As she does, she looks up at the roof that she knows Bryne Covenant rests on overwatch for her. She smiles. One of four people in this universe that she trusts implicitly. She stifles the thought of how at least one of those may not trust her.

Her eyes fall on two human males, sitting on opposite sides of the cafe. Both looking out of place. One gazes at the Umbaran approaching him. He runs his hand over his bald head and drops one eyelid in a wink.

She turns her gaze to the other, the young man with dark, thick hair and a matching goatee and mustache. His eyes stare at her. With a catch, she realizes that the observer bears a younger version of a face that she has known of for at least five years. The face of a man who had shared a cold cell with her. After he had been murdered by a Nemoidian thug, masquerading as a sentient being. 

The face of Bryne and Ahsoka’s brothers from the late war. 

She steels herself to turn to Dait Gordo. The Umbaran looks her up and down, undressing her with his gray eyes. She is comforted by the weight of the smaller blaster in a thigh holster, as well as the thought of her Handmaiden blaster in the small bag on the table. 

Nola paints a smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gordo,” she says. “I have a business proposition for you.”

His eyes narrow at her. “Who are you?” he asks, as suspicious tone overlaying the odd accent. 

“My name’s not important. Just be assured that I’ve come into some information that might be helpful for your business. Or should I say businesses.” She smiles. “All three of them.”

The Umbaran starts to turn. “I think not, my dear. The possibility of a nice lunch with one such as you was tantalizing. Especially with the distinct possibility I would have you in my bed in the evening. But you had to go and ruin it.”

Nola grits her teeth at the thought of the evening’s ‘entertainment’, but forges on. “Pity. I would think a former information broker would love to have information. Especially about a former benefactor of yours. Does the name Poldar interest you?”

Gordo stops, staring at her. After a moment, he sits in the proffered chair. “I don’t know if you know who you’re dealing with, my dear. But bear in mind that a young woman with a 200,000 credit bounty on her head maybe shouldn’t be threatening extortion.” He smiles—an expression that resembles a death’s head. “Especially to a broker for bounty hunters.” He gestures towards the unknown young man. “Like that—,” he starts.

The whining reverberation of a blaster bolt cuts through the bright afternoon. Gordo collapses onto the table, a smoking fissure in the back of his head.

Nola stands up, her hand moving to the closest blaster. An instant’s sweep of the cafe informs her that most of the cafe’s customers had already left, or were lying dead from other blaster bolts—especially the ones with a certain thuggish look. _At least the ones who weren’t her thugs,_ her mind registers. All but Boge M’Faru, who has jumped up, and the young man with Captain Tone’s face, who has remained seated, casually sipping his ale.

Nola’s body is assaulted by a strong surge of arousal, similar to that felt around her foster-sister, Dani Faygan, when she is broadcasting. A feeling much more visceral—almost a taste and a smell of ozone—than the light, joyful resonance. 

Several more beings have entered the cafe. Large, reptilian humanoids, with various types of topknots on their otherwise bare skulls, their colors changing over their skull-crests.

All armed and pointing smoking blasters in various directions. She watches as another Falleen, a larger one with almost regal bearing walks in behind the soldiers. She hears blasterfire near Boge’s position, then silence.

Nola moves her hand away from her blaster as the leader looks over at Gordo’s corpse. “Pity. He was useful at one time.” He moves his eyes to Nola, appraising her figure. Nola fights the warmth as he smiles. “My dear Ms. Vorserrie,” he says in a deep voice. “Please come with me. Perhaps we can discuss what you came to talk about with a corpse.”

Nola plants her feet, doesn’t move. She looks in Boge’s direction. The Falleen smiles. “Your retainer is fine. He is only stunned.” His expression grows harder. “That can change. Just as your status can.”

Nola tries to shake the fog from her brain. Even Dani’s resonance had never affected her like this, unless she wanted it to. She nods after a moment; manages to find her voice. 

“Who are you?” she says, hoping that Bryne can hear. 

He walks over and puts his hand on her cheek. “I am Prince Xizor. I think that we can help each other.”

Nola looks up at him. She makes her decision, despite the protests she can hear in her earpiece. “Will he remain unharmed, if I do go with you?”

Xizor smiles almost serenely and nods. 

As she follows the Falleen out, she concentrates on what Bryne is yelling in her ear. “Don’t go, dammit. I’m losing your signal, Nola. The pheromones—,”

The rest is lost as Xizor moves his hand gently to her ear, caressing her cheek, as he yanks the comm out. She hears distant blasterfire from the rooftop across the street.

+=+=+=+=+=

A young Twi’lek trudges towards the construction site for the fifth day. His eyes adjust to the world’s bright sunlight as he drags the small excavator towards the rising tower.

Fit’s eyes tear as he thinks of his friend, Meg-lann. He can only hope that she is alright. He had heard the blasterfire coming from where he had last seen her, as he was dragged away by Gordo’s thugs. He sobs as he thinks that she may have paid the price for him agreeing to go with her and the scary human male.

He hope that if she did, the scary human male is burning in Ryloth’s acid-hell for eternity. 

Fitanzujua’taro, named for heroes from his parents’ birthworld, as well as their adopted one, sighs as he thinks of his own lot. He looks around at his fellow laborers. He has traded an existence of slavery in all but name, for one that was true slavery, with no end of term to tantalize. He looks down at one who is finally freed, a young woman who no longer moves, despite the overseer lashing her with a stun prod. His fellow laborers, Ganthelians of all shapes, sizes, and hues, turn away from the body, without prompting. 

Fit remembers Meg-lann’s bravery. Bravery that he had not seen or felt in many years, since his father died. He curses to himself as he thinks of what that bravery might have gotten her. Just as it had sealed his father’s fate. 

He notices an overseer looking at him. He quickens his pace with his burden, moving towards a particular section of the tower’s base. He looks up and sees the windows of the massive command center, the various uniformed individuals watching their progress.

“176!” the overseer yells, beckoning to him. He looks over at the Imperial. Another Imperial, in a uniform with more red and blue buttons, stares at him. The human’s dark eyes look out from a young face—one that resembles the ruling Pryde of the Conyl, at least in skin-color. 

Fit shudders as those eyes lock on him. There is no warmth coming from those eyes; warmth he had seen in the rare holos of the Pryde’s members. At least in the holo of Ganthel’s senator.

Fit drops the excavator at the overseer’s impatience. He bows, being careful to keep his eyes downcast. The other Imperial reaches out, raises Fit’s chin and eyes to his. “I know you. You worked in the bar on Ganthel. Gordo’s.”

“Yes, lord,” he says quietly.

“Thought so,” the young Imperial says. He smiles. The expression doesn’t improve the fearsome visage. One that he had seen matched on the scary woman who had captured him.

“I think I’ll take you with me. I am looking for the young woman that was with you. How would you like to work on a stardestroyer, in relative comfort?”

Fit says nothing to the offer. “I am yours to command, lord,” he says. “But I haven’t seen her since I was recaptured.”

“I’m not a lord, 176. I am just a soldier. You can call me Lieutenant,” he says. “Come with me.”

Fit walks behind him, unable to look at the other slaves as they silently watch him. 

_One type of slavery is no better than the other_ , he tells himself.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann feels the fog lift from her mind as light slowly crowds through the spaces in her eyelids. For the first time in months, she realizes that she is in an actual bed, rather than a ship’s bunk or the pad on a cold storage room floor. Her eyes open. The light is dim in the room, but she is able to make out her surroundings. She feels and hears a low thrumming sound; she is on another ship, but in a cabin substantially bigger than her cook’s quarters that she had shared with the Chief Steward on the party barge. 

She realizes that she is also in a larger bed than she would’ve thought and that the bed is extremely comfortable. Meglann lifts the covers up as her head comes off the pillow. She stops as she sees that she only wears a small bandage on her shoulder, both front and back. A twinge of a dull ache reminds her that she had actually been shot.

“Hello, my dear,” says a warm female voice, lightly accented. She looks over near the door. A young woman, her bronze skin just visible in the dim light, smiles at her. The woman is clad in a robe and appears to be eating a meal. Another, slightly older woman, much smaller, but with powerfully muscled arms in her sleeveless uniform tunic looks on with a blank expression as she sips caf.

Meglann looks away; concentrating on the other woman, whose face is only slightly less intimidating, if softer. The fog lifts as she recognizes her as the ISB woman who had been in the bar, as well as in her diner, ages ago on Alderaan. 

“Welcome to the land of the living. Please, join my wife and I for breakfast.” She makes a beckoning gesture. 

Meglann looks down at herself. The ISB woman points to a robe lying on the bed. Meglann hesitates, then stands from the bed with only a tiny bit of a swimming head. She walks to the end of the bed and picks up the robe. She can feel both women’s eyes on her as she covers herself. 

“Now that you are awake, we can put some light on the subject.” The ISB woman pushes a button. A curtain slowly draws from a window near the table. 

Meglann’s eyes widen as they adjust to the bright sun. They widen even further as they move over a huge wedge shape below the window. A shape opening out on clear blue water and a tropical island. An island with several large finished and unfinished buildings on them.

“Welcome to Scarif, my dear. Maybe we can get down to the mystery of why a certain Imperial moff wants you so badly,” the younger woman says. She smiles tightly. “In case you don’t remember, my name is Leeza. This is Cantos. We’re your only lifeline,” ‘Leeza’ finishes. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Jano Secor looks at the screen of his comm as a text comes in. His eyes grow thunderous as he discovers that his plans have taken a turn. _Antol. That meddling upstart._ He starts to send a text in response.

“Something more important than what I am saying, Moff Secor?” asks a hissing, reptilian voice. He looks up, his eyes widening at the ocherous yellow eyes of Sheev Palapatine. The gargantuan black shadow of Darth Vader looms behind the shrunken, ancient figure. Vader’s own depthless mechanical eyes stare at him, as if waiting for an incorrect answer.

“No, my lord,” Secor says, bowing his head. 

The smile that the Emperor gives is anything but comforting or understanding. “Good. I would hate to learn that anything was interfering with our plans on Scarif. From you, or your new Labor Acquisitions officer, Colonel Antol.”

Secor’s still-healing body goes cold, from the Emperor’s words, the presence of Vader, and the news that Meglann Florlin was missing, as was Gordo, the information broker he had inserted into Moff Poldar’s illicit portfolio of assets.

~=~=~=~=~=

Bryne Covenant drops one attacker on the rooftop, then curses as three more take their place. His eyes scan for a way off of the pitched rooftop that doesn’t involve being smashed into goo on the ground. As usual, his spotty Force-sense had taken this opportunity to take a vacation, so a Force-jump was out of the question. _Guess I’m going to have to admit defeat and get a jetpack_ , he thinks as he dispatches another Falleen. He curses as a Rodian’s slugthrower bullet intersects with his right shoulder, making a gonging sound on the armor. The slug doesn’t penetrate, but he will feel the results on the ruined skin and cobbled together joint tomorrow morning, just as the pain had greeted him every morning in the last few months, almost since turning thirty. 

He grins behind his bucket. _Of course, gotta be breathing to feel it_. The Rodian’s impertinence draws his full attention with a quick toss of his carbine to his left hand and a blaster bolt between the bulbous eyes.

A blue and orange light reaches out and grabs his Force-sense, caressing it, signifying the connection’s return for now. _I’d kinda like it if you were breathing, Bait_ , the clear voice says, the always-present bright humor in her voice. He grins. _Always present except when she is pissed at me._

 _Kinda busy, Runt,_ he sends to Ahsoka. _Glad to see that you aren’t dead anymore._

 _Yep_ , his Ahsoka-sense says. _I’ll keep it warm for you._

He shakes his head. “She’s been hanging around Dani too much,” he whispers to himself. “Always putting thoughts of keeping things warm in my head at the worst moments.” He smiles again, wistful for only a moment as he leaps to the ground. The five remaining attackers follow him in less controlled fashion. Covenant lands an instant before they do. He sighs and holds his hand out. The attackers slow to a meter off of the ground, then smash back down to the permacrete. All unconscious.

 _Guess you can take the boy out of the Jedi,_ he thinks, as he turns and runs towards the cafe. As he does, he realizes that he is unable to tap into his mystical partner again. 

_Great. As if I wasn’t a slow enough runner as it is._

+=+=+=+=+=

Boge M’Faru leaps up as a deluge of liquid strikes him full in the face, bringing him to full consciousness. He starts towards the young man holding the pitcher of ice water in one hand, a Mando blaster in the other. 

“Who the hell are you?” he asks as he scrambles to find his blaster. He realizes that it rests on the floor, under the intruder’s foot. He shakes his head to clear it of the remaining cobwebs.

“Somebody your boss hired to babysit that Naboo’s ass and keep it from harm.”

“First I’ve heard of it. How do I know you aren’t bullshitting me?” M’Faru asks.

A brief smile paints the man’s face over the goatee. “You don’t.” He kicks Boge’s weapon towards him. “But I don’t have time to hold your hand, lump.”

As he picks up his weapon, the ex-Peacekeeper realizes that the man’s face is familiar. Familiar from his time in the Republic, and later, the Imperial navies. “You’re a—,” he starts.

The young man’s face grows thunderous. “Don’t. Say. It.” he spits out. 

Boge nods after a moment. “So if you’re this shit-hot backup, how come you just sat over there sipping ale while I was getting stunned?”

“Wasn’t hired to give you dance lessons, lump. I was hired to keep Vorserrie out of the hands of bounty hunters.”

“Great job,” Boge says sardonically. 

“Nope. She went with them voluntarily, to keep you from getting shot in your hard head with something besides a stunner.” He grins, pushes a button on his wrist. 

Boge watches as his nondescript everyday clothing flickers and fades out, revealing full Mando gear. The Mando toes his bucket up from the ground, flipping it up, catching it as he spins his blaster into its holster. Another quick move and the helmet flips to his head.

“Go. She has a tracker on her and I fired an extra one on one of the soldiers for good measure. Plus, I know these clowns. Would like to not burn bridges with them. I’ll find the girl. You go find your boss and pulls his nuts from the fire. He’ll probably need it.”

Boge smirks. “He’s kicked your ass before, hasn’t he, bud?”

The Mando stares at him. “Let’s just say we’re kind of even right now. Move.”

He turns and ignites the jetpack, leaving Boge to find his own way. He sighs and turns towards the elevator.

+=+=+=+=+=

Covenant runs towards the building with the rooftop cafe. He had changed directions once he had seen another twenty or so Falleen moving purposefully through the streets. _Where’s a cop when you need one?_

He turns into the alcove of the emergency exit, pausing to scan the lock. As he does, the door snaps open, slamming into his bucket, moving the cowl into his jaw. The air is expelled from his lungs as his back hits the wall of the alcove.

Boge M’Faru stands, his bulk filling the door. A smirk flows to his face as he looks at his former boss. 

_Force, he is solid_ , Covenant thinks to himself, as he attempts to re-introduce air to his lungs.

“Watch where the hell you’re going,” he says to the ex-Peacekeeper. 

“Sorry. I thought you were a tiny Falleen.” Boge’s eyes grow some thunder of his own. “Maybe I was too preoccupied with the backup for Nola that you neglected to tell me about.”

Covenant stops him. “You can try and kick my ass later. We’ve got to find her. Falleen ain’t exactly known for their kind natures. Especially the Black Sun variety.”

He falls silent. A text moves across his HUD in his visor. 

“Come on. Boba has found them. Got a twenty.”

“Boba? As in Boba Fett? You’ve been playing footsie with one of the deadliest assholes around?” Boge shoves him again. “How the hell do you expect me to trust you?”

Covenant shoves the larger man back. “I don’t. I expect you to do the fuck as you’re told. You signed up for this. Boba will do what we expect as long as we keep paying him.”

Boge appears to swell in size, then stops. 

Covenant looks away. “I’m sorry, Boge. I didn’t have a lot of time to make this call. Somebody had already tried to get Nola on Bothawui. I thought that a better way would be to pre-empt one of the bounty hunters.”

Boge nods. “It’s a solid plan. I might get over it,” he says quietly. He pushes past Covenant.

In spite of both men’s legendary ‘slowness’, they arrive at the address quickly. After a brief look, they charge through the door. 

A small figure stands alone. A figure of perhaps Phygus Baldrick’s size, with the green skin of a Falleen, but distinctly human features. A thatch of graying, brown hair sticks up over his crest, with a full topknot of the same color—another reminder of the Falleen heritage.

He smiles, his piercing blue eyes watching them. He stands, dressed in a rich business suit of silk, his arms crossed. 

Covenant is struck by the fact that there is something vaguely familiar about him.

“Hello, gentlemen,” he says. “I am Thittan. Chief Operating Officer of Xizor Transport Systems. My Prince is expecting you.” He holds his hand towards a door.

Boge and Bryne look at one another, then walk through the door.

Their eyes meet and widen at the sight before them.

Nola Vorserrie sits a table with another Falleen, this one with an air of command. Covenant sees Boge start with recognition. 

Nola appears to be no worse for wear, and has all of her clothes on, except, unaccountably, her flat sandals. 

Bryne takes a deep breath as a wave of _lust_?—sweeps over him. He concentrates on looking over to the corner. Boba Fett sits in the corner, his helmet off, sipping caf. 

Three large Falleen warriors lay unconscious and tied up near his feet. Bryne tracks over to the chief Falleen, his eyebrows raised. 

“Yes. I am leaving them like that. They should’ve fought a little harder. I haven’t decided whether they will wake up from their ‘naps’, or not.” Bryne feels the velvet smoothness of the Falleen’s voice cut through him. He notices that Boge is looking up at the ceiling. He jerks his head towards the door. Boge nods gratefully and walks out. 

“I am Prince Xizor, of the Noble House of Sizhran. Ms. Vorserrie has told me of your issues with the late Mr. Gordo. I had my own issues with him. Particularly with the fact that he was trying to manipulate me with some of his Imperial connections. Particularly those who got their own starts in the restaurant business.”

“Leeza Antol,” Bryne says. 

Xizor nods and motions to a chair. Bryne remains standing. Nola looks at him, rolls her eyes.

After an acceptable amount of time to display his obstinate defiance, he pulls his bucket off and sits.

Xizor nods, examining Bryne’s face. “Yes. I can see the resemblance. I knew your father, briefly. As well as your mother, when they were on Mandalore. I was shocked by their untimely deaths. I am glad that they have a legacy that survived. In spite of our—disagreements over certain, ah, investments, they were honorable people.” He pulls his topknot aside, displaying a small, puckered scar. “Your mother was a good hand with a slugthrower.”

Both Bryne and Nola grin at one another.

Xizor examines his face. “You mostly look like your father, except for those eyes. Your skin is only a trifle darker than his—another of your mother’s legacies, I expect. Almost unnoticeable.”

Bryne takes a deep breath. “Yes. Perhaps we can have dinner later and you can extol the virtues of my skin, but business before pleasure. I assume that Nola has told you what we want.”

Xizor gives a wolfish grin. “I believe that the sarcasm and snark might be a legacy from both parents.”

“You have no idea, Prince Xizor,” Nola says. “There are other, more recent influences to blame for that.”

Xizor sobers. “I didn’t know that Gordo had managed to capture someone dear to you. I had heard rumors, or at least Thittan had, that there was great interest in the young woman in question. I’m trying to discern if it was happenstance or not that his Commerce-Takers were able to seize her. I think she might have fallen into his lap; that their unscrupulousness paid off for him.”

Bryne nods. “It would’ve been pretty elaborate for him to set that up. Those of us who know her might’ve thought she would intervene for an innocent, but others might not.”

“He has plenty of contacts for it on Raxus though, through his side business as a broker for bounty hunters. His Commerce-Takers might moonlight,” Thittan adds. 

Nola looks at Thittan sharply. “There is the fact that she worked for you,” she says. “You could have tipped someone off.”

The ‘businessman’ smiles smoothly. “Yes. I could’ve. But I look at the bottom line. She had improved that ship’s popularity immensely, even in a short amount of time.” His expression grows more sinister. “That is not to say that certain elements in the Raxus office might not have been in Gordo’s pocket. They’re the office responsible for firing an experienced Captain merely because he was looking out for his crew. It is one of the reasons that we are here. To find out if they were dealing under the table with Gordo.”

Bryne notices that Xizor is examining his long fingernails as Thittan is speaking. He shakes his head. _The Prince doesn’t have a fucking care about the Captain or Meglann, just with slaughtering anything or anyone who might get in his way_. 

Thittan walks up to the table. “I’ll look into who might’ve have let Gordo know where she was. There are many possibilities. But we don’t know where she is at.”

Nola nods. “We know that she was taken from Gordo’s establishment by Imperial forces. But they were not taken as part of the labor levy for some big project going on somewhere.”

“One thing that remains to be looked into,” Xizor says. “The Ganthelians are damned sensitive about the indenture laws. Even if she is not in their custody, she’ll always be a fugitive, unless she is manumitted from the indenture.”

They are all silent at that. “What if it was an illegal substitution?” Nola asks. “What I have found, in studying those laws, people can only be substituted for the escaped indenture if it occurred on Ganthel.”

Thittan smiles and says, “Good point. But we would have to find someone willing to testify that it happened here.” He reaches up and touches her hand. “You could be useful if you can’t solve your Alderaani problems,” he finishes.

Xizor looks her up and down. “I agree. As a matter of fact, Ms. Vorserrie were getting around to discussing opportunities with me, before we were so rudely interrupted.” He grins. “We were just going to try out the new tub over there.” He looks at Boba. “Without the chaperone.”

Nola looks away, then directly at Bryne. 

“We would love to stay and chat, Prince, but we have some tasks to complete,” Bryne says. He smiles, reaches over and touches the Falleen’s hand. “We might could arrange something for the three of us, once our friend is safe.”

Boba and Nola’s jaws compete for which one falls the furthest towards the deck. 

Xizor is silent, then smiles. He returns the touch. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but it could be equally entertaining.” He looks down his nose at the Corellian. “Just be aware that I have tremendous appetites, your Eminence,” he says. 

Covenant doesn’t blink at the use of his style. He gets up and holds his hand out to Nola. She remains seated for a moment, then picks up her shoes and rises, taking the hand. Xizor rises and bows to her.

Covenant pulls on her hand. Boba rises and backs out.

When they are out in the street and headed for the Draq’stone, Bryne stops and turns. “What the hell was that, No-no? Why did you go off with him?”

She stops and crosses her arms. Her dark eyes flash with anger. “Because he was going to kill Boge, if I didn’t.”

“Nola, you could’ve—,” 

“What? Gotten laid? Let me tell you something Bryne. I grew up with a Zeltron. Even though she was out of the house by the time I was concerned with such things, she came back and taught me a helluva lot of things. Including some techniques that could help me resist chemical pheromones, in case I was sprayed with any of the dozens of artificial date rape versions. I was perfectly fine resisting his.” She reaches out and runs her hand over his groin. He manages not to make any unseemly noises. “Looks like I was doing better than you.”

Boba and Boge giggle at him. Or at least Boge giggles; Boba snorts. Covenant stills them with a look. He reaches up and touches her under her nose.

He holds up the bloody fingers in front of her eyes. He notices her eyes trying to focus. Boba catches her as she stumbles.

“Yeah, Nola,” Bryne says softly. “Is that is why your pupils are blown and your nose is bleeding?”

“Yes,” comes another voice. Thittan stands next to them. “Those Zeltron techniques can work for other species, but at a much higher cost against Falleen. She needs to be under observation of a doctor or a medical droid, for a few hours, to see if further treatment is needed. It should wear off.”

Bryne looks sharply at the diminutive official. “I don’t know if I trust anyone here.”

Thittan looks at Boba. After a moment, the now-helmeted bounty hunter nods. “Mr. Fett can look after her while we tend to her.” He smiles, a surprisingly gentle expression. “After that, I think that she might make herself scarce. She does have a bounty on her.”

Nola looks at Bryne. “Don’t send me away, Covenant,” she says. “I’m part of this.”

After a moment, he reaches over and kisses her. “Never, Nola. But I think that there is someplace you could do more good than any of us.”

“Where?” she asks. 

“Ganthel. Talking to the ruling family. Draq’ and Bail have good relations with them. You might find some leverage.” 

She is quiet for a moment. “Think I already have an idea. Might involve Pantora.”

Nola looks at Fett, then back at Bryne. She pokes the Corellian in the chest. “When this is all over, bud, we’re going to have a conversation about getting a babysitter for me. A long one.” 

Boge smirks at both of them. “I’ll sit on him for you, Nola,” he says.

Her eyes narrow as she looks at Fett. “Especially a babysitter who killed a Peacekeeper and a Ranger on Alderaan. One who helped torture you,” she says, her voice softer.

Bryne looks at her. “Let me worry about that, Nola,” he finally says. “Trust me.” 

She continues to stare at him, then gives a brief nod. 

As they walk away, Nola turns to Bryne. She points at his middle. “Make sure somebody takes care of that,” she says with a smirk. “I would, but I’m busy, apparently.”

He shakes his head. Thittan smiles. “She will be fine. She could’ve not resisted my lord’s gift. I don’t think he would’ve done anything untoward,” he says.

Bryne turns to Thittan. “Brings up another topic about harm, Thittan. I know your prince wouldn’t have harmed her, because we wouldn’t be standing here all chatty, if he did. But apparently someone in your circle wouldn’t mind interfering in the sovereign government of Corellia and harming someone.”

Thittan starts to protest. Bryne holds up his hand. “Don’t want to discuss it. I’m Corellia’s protector. I may not be the best at it always, but you don’t want to start a war with me—especially when those I love are involved.”

He spins on his heels and leaves. After a second, Boge smirks at the Faleen and follows.

Thittan watches them leave. He knows that they are headed off of the world, in a ship that he is very familiar with. He turns and walks back into the building.


	13. All His East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The attempt on Shyla Merricope’s life unwittingly set in motion a chain of events that reverberated across the Core, from Alderaan to Corellia to Ganthel. The resolve of the Corellians against direct interference by the Empire, as opposed to the status quo of their puppet Diktat, Dupas Thomree, had affects on the machinations of the various Elder Families on Mother Alderaan. Only recently declassified documents reveal the extent of the beginning of relief for the citizens of Ganthel, the home planet of a future Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy and one of the possible founders of the shadowy First Order._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Excerpt from Volume I: Fulcrum and Tempest, _Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

Rae Sloane tops off the glass held in her counterpart’s hand. Her eyes narrow as she watches the captain of the ISB corvette sip the brandy. 

The senior Lieutenant, masked, but in full uniform, and known only by a number, nods appreciatively and sets the glass down. The woman’s eyes smile. “Thank you, Captain. That was a lovely year.” She checks her chronometer as a huge version of a stormtrooper, a captain’s pauldron on his shoulder walks up to her and leans down. She nods after a moment.

“The Headquarters stooge that I seem to be doomed to cart around has boarded with the body. I think that we need to go. We’re on a clock,” she says.

Rae nods. “I understand. Wish you could stay a bit longer. It would be good to talk with somebody new, other than these lumps I seem to be stuck with.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling. My crew and that IG thug seem to be able to discuss only one or two things. Their careers or their various genitalia.”

Rae laughs. She takes a closer look at her fellow officer’s masked face, the dark hair and eyes the only features visible under the uniform cap. The woman had turned away when she lifted the mask to drink. “That’s got to be a pain, walking around with a mask on when you’re not on your ship.”

“It is, kinda. ISB rules. But it gives me that air of mystery. Cuts down on getting my nethers taken care of, though.”

Their shared laughter rises. “Honey, I don’t have to have a mask to limit my chances around Task Force Ryloth. I just have to look at the sterling specimens assigned here.”

The stormtrooper coughs politely, but with an air of impatience perceptible through the modulator. 

Fifty-five rises and holds her hand out. Rae takes it. “If you ever find that you’re no longer working for ISB and want to try the real navy, again,” she says, seeing the brown eyes crinkle in a smirk, “look me up. I’ll be here for another three months, unless they give her to me permanently. May not be senior enough.”

“Good luck Commander. I’ve got your comm information. Maybe I’ll call you up and we can commiserate over the uselessness of our fellow captains, as well as their obvious shortcomings.”

As the woman and the stormtrooper leave the bridge, Rae looks out over the expanse of her command, resting on the ground in the unending, red-brown of Ryloth. She sighs after several moments, then turns to her XO. “How much longer on the supply loading?” she asks. 

“Only about two hours, Captain,” he says. She opens her mouth to reply. Her ship shudders suddenly. Both officers turn, seeing the mushrooming cloud of fire and smoke rising from a nearby prefabbed building cluster.

The overpressure wave hits a microsecond later. The windows shatter, knocking them both off of their feet.

Rae climbs, watching her XO’s mouth form words, but hearing nothing but an insistent ringing in her ears. She shakes her head. As she does, she feels pieces of glass and drops of blood slide out of and off of her face.

“—insurgent attack on the base, Captain,” he says. 

“Damage report,” she snaps as he helps her to her feet. 

“Cosmetic, so far, Captain.”

“Get the force-fields up on any broken windows. Get us up into space, or at least the upper atmosphere. I want some distance from these assholes.”

She happens to glimpse two figures running from her ship to the ISB corvette parked nearby. Her eyes widen as she sees that one of the figures appears to have tall protrusions rising from the masked head.

“Holy shit,” she exclaims. “That’s the fucking corpse,” is all that she can get out. “I think we’ve been had,” she spits out. “Raise ship. Get us above that corvette and ready the tractor beam.”

The XO, to his credit, obeys instantly. Rae sees the faint glow appear around the broken windows, sealing them, as the increasing whine of the engine cuts through the remaining vestiges of her hearing.

The whine stops abruptly. There is an eerie silence. “What the hell happened?” she asks.

“The engine control computer has gone offline. We can’t start the engines,” the engineer says.

“Get it fixed,” Rae says, her voice more calm than she feels. She looks at the gunnery officer, as the corvette rises. “Turrets—local control. Open fire on that ship.”

“Captain? That’s one of ours—,” the officer starts.

“Do it,” she says. Lances of green fire arc from the light cruiser as the corvette rises higher.

“Captain,” a timid voice from the comm console says.

“What?”

“Signal from the corvette, addressed to you.”

“What it is?” she asks. 

The young ensign hesitates.

“Come on, out with it.”

The comm officer takes a deep breath. “The signal reads, _Would love to get to know you a lot better, to give you something a bit more than what you have here. I’ll wear the mask and nothing else. Maybe we’ll discuss different genitalia_.”

The bridge falls even more silent as Rae flushes. She turns away and exits the bridge, as the turrets fall silent.

+=+=+=+=+=

Tamsin turns briefly as the hatch to the bridge opens. Her eyebrows rise as she sees Kolan supporting Fulcrum. Drop, his helmet off, takes the young woman, his dark eyes filled with more concern than she has ever seen. 

“Get a meddroid up here,” Kolan says. 

“I’m okay,” Fulcrum says. “It’s just a few chest pains.”

Kolan grins. “I was talking about for me. I think I strained something supporting you. You could stand to lay off of Covenant’s cooking.”

“Asshole,” is all that she says, as she catches her breath. She looks at Tamsin. “Report,” she says.

Tamsin rolls her eyes. “I don’t think you have enough ass to bring off the ‘Admiral’ vibes, dear,” she snarks. She turns back to the console.

Her eyes fall on the open stars. A large wedge shape moves into her vision—larger than the others. “We got an ImpStar moving to intercept.”

“Well, evade them. I thought that we pay you to do all that fancy flying shit, darling,” Fulcrum says. “Do I have to do everything, myself?” She, Drop, and Kolan find the nearest chairs and strap in.

Just in time for all of their stomachs to stay about three meters above their bodies as the corvette jinks straight down, then angles upwards to the ventral hull of the behemoth. The ship starts to rock from laser bursts as they draw in within a couple of meters of the massive hull. 

Laser bursts from the ImpStar cease, but continue from the four fighters of the picket closing on their stern. 

Tamsin yanks on the yoke as they clear the destroyer’s stern. The artificial gravity strains, pushing them all against the backs of their seats, their weight suddenly increased. She manages to point to the open space above the conning tower to the navigator. He nods, smiling.

The stars hyphenate just as the corvette reaches the top of the tower. She realizes that they have pulled several large pieces of durasteel from the tower with them into hyperspace.

“Flashy, Captain. But effective,” Fulcrum says. Tamsin sees her slump, her eyes closed, the lingering effects of the vitals suppressor apparent. 

“Get her below to the sickbay,” Tamsin says to Drop. The ex-trooper nods, rises, and picks Fulcrum up as if a child.

Tamsin rises and stretches, cracking her back. “So, did you manage to load Ano’s virus into the ship?”

“Yeah. All records of her, what little there were, were wiped.” He grins. “The ISB strikes fear into the hearts of ordinary Imps,” he finishes. “Added bonus is that we have some intel on fleet movements. We might be able to get a line on a certain other ImpStar’s movements.” His smile fades. “For more than one reason.”

Tamsin grins. “That is, if our slicer can cut down on the googoo eyes she sends another slicer, long enough to find it.”

A phrase appears on every screen. _Fuck off, halfwit._

“Ah, dear. When you get a phrase that works for you, you sure do stick with it,” Tamsin finishes.

She doesn’t notice through the crew’s laughter that Kolan looks at his comm, the one visible eye narrowing with a troubled look.

+=+=+=+=+=

Delilah Sal walks into her quarters at the top of the Imperial complex. She notices that the Deathtrooper has brought his weapon up. She hears a squeal of energy as she turns fully to see what has distracted him. Before she can react, she hears a metallic rolling on the floor. A small object comes to a rest against one of his feet. An arc of electricity flows over his entire armor, sending him to the floor, spasming and jerking.

She reaches for her own weapon. Her hand falls on an empty holster, an instant before her head rocks back from connecting with a crimson fist.

She looks up just as Dani Faygan spins and kicks her on the other side of the jaw. She manages to block the third blow, a follow-up from Dani’s weak hand, with her left forearm. 

Faygan’s head rocks back from her own follow-up. 

Sal moves over closer and attempts to grapple with the ex-officer. “What the hell’s going on, Faygan? What is your major malfunction?”

“Why’re you playing dumb? You know what you’ve done. If Shyla dies, you’ll follow her very quickly. You won’t die in your sleep either.”

Delilah shoves Dani against the wall, then tackles her around her middle. Dani’s head strikes the wall as she manages to evade the hug and twist around Sal’s back. Delilah spins, striking her head against Dani’s in a Keldabe Kiss. 

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Sal gasps as Dani punches her in the gut.

“Halt!” a modulated voice intones. Dani gives one last punch to Delilah’s jaw as a blaster muzzle touches her head. She raises her hands; is yanked up by the two stormtroopers. They twist her arms behind her back.

Delilah wipes blood from her face. She stares at Dani, her anger rising. “I don’t know what you think I did, but I haven’t done anything to Merricope. She’s nothing to me. A washed-up politician.” Sal turns to the troopers. “Take her into custody. Have a death warrant put on my desk. She assaulted Imperial officers.”

“If they take a step out of this room with her, Delilah, you’ll die,” the dry tones of Draq’ Bel Iblis intrude into her hearing.

“Your name can be added to the warrant, Draq’,” she says.

“No, it can’t. Neither can Ms. Faygan’s,” Dupas Thomree says. He looks at everyone involved. “Draq’, take your daughter out of here. Sal, release them. We’ve a bigger problem than this petty bullshit. A former Diktat has possibly been poisoned. The Emperor desires that we get to the bottom this.”

“I have gotten to the bottom of it,” Dani says. “Shyla was last seen in her company.”

Thomree looks at Draq’. “Draq’, once again, take her out of here. I realize you’re both upset, but you need to let CorSec and ISB handle this.” 

Delilah watches as Shavuot Colum’s hand closes on Dani’s shoulder, drawing her into the elevator. The Legate-Internal of Corellia, the chief law-enforcement officer and advocate for the Five Brothers, nods at the Diktat, his dark face grim. “Come on Dani, Draq’,” he says. “We aren’t helping Shyla with this.”

As they enter the elevator, along with the two stormtroopers and the recovering Deathtrooper, Delilah turns to Thomree. His usual smile is absent. 

“She broke in here and tried to kill me. That poor Deathtrooper was ambushed with an EMP grenade. I want her brains splattered all over the Ending-wall of the Central Keep, with a slugthrower,” she says, referring to the main detention facility of Coronet City and the former site, as well as the method, of ancient executions.

“I don’t think you’ll get very far, dear,” he says. “The Bel Iblis family have a great following among the people. So did Shyla Merricope. I don’t think your chances for advancement will occur if the Emperor has to deal with an uprising on a Core World. A world that produces a significant amount of the capital ships of the Imperial fleet.”

He looks hard at her. “You’d better go check on Shyla. Do it while Dani is not there. I won’t have much sympathy for you, if you don’t show that Imperial authority is doing all that it can to find her attacker.”

Sal feels the heat rise in her face. “I heard it was a drug overdose. We might want to investigate that angle.”

“I don’t think you do, dear,” he says quietly. “You’ve been seen with a certain individual—a certain individual with criminal connections. She’s an interloper on this world. You need to think about your alliances.”

Sal allows herself to calm. After a moment of staring at him, she nods. “Very well, your Excellency. I will relay your concerns to the individual in question.”

“Do they have anything on you, Delilah?” Thomree asks. 

She shakes her head emphatically. “No, Dupas. We’ve just worked together when I was working in the Outer Rim. I used them.” She tries to ignore the skeptical look on his bland, handsome features.

He nods, accepting her explanation. “Good. Now go out and do what you need to do to get Corellia out of this mess.”

As he leaves, Tera Moj steps out from her bedroom. “So. Do you intend to do anything about these accusations against me?” she asks. 

Delilah looks at her. “Nope. I think I’m done with you. You will not attack any more Corellian citizens. Tell Xizor that I am done with you both. I’m not bound by what my mother pledged to you.”

Tera nods, smiling softly. “I think you may come to regret your choices, my dear. Whatever.”

Delilah is finally alone with her thoughts. She closes her eyes, thinking of her late mother; of her choices in life.

+=+=+=+=+=

Phygus Baldrick downs another energy drink, as he focuses on the multiple datapad screens, his right hand moving over the remote. He grins as he thinks of another slicer, forcing him to up his game. _Can’t wear those dual data monocles, though. Things make me want to puke_.

His eyes crinkle in a deeper smile as a stream of text pops up on one. _Hey, Squirt,_ the text reads.

“Hey, there,” he says, unaccustomed warmth in his voice. They had developed their own way of communication.

_Haven’t found anything, yet. You?_

“Nope,” he replies. “Been sidelined by another emergency. Trying to identify a poison.”

 _Is everybody okay?_ Ano texts.

“I don’t know if you know her. A friend of Dani’s and someone Draq’ mentored. She’s alive. Dr. Hegridhara is hopeful, but it may be a long damn recovery.”

_How can I help? Give Dani my love._

His eyes soften. A few months ago and she would’ve never even asked. He had learned that it wasn’t that she didn’t care about people. It was more difficult for her to express that she did. He shakes his head. _We find a way._

“I will, sweetie,” he says. “It’s slow going.”

“Tell me,” she says into his earpiece. He grins.

“Spice residue was found in her body. But Heg has found that it was layered on something else. Her symptoms—the paralysis and other things have never been a by-product of an OD. Not to mention the fact that there is evidence of someone forcing her to ingest it.”

 _Do you think that the unknown substance might have piggybacked on the spice_?

Phygus is silent. “You may be onto something.” He copies her text to another comm. A comm in the hands of a brilliant Drall medical scientist. “What’re you thinking?”

“I glimpsed something when I was researching something else. A secretion from an animal on Nal Hutta. The Hutts use it as a torture drug, or to enhance the experience of certain spice drugs. It depends on which gender of the animal you get it from.”

He thinks that this is one of the longest sentences that he has heard her speak since he has known her. He is momentarily silent as he relishes the sound of her voice.

_Hey, you there?_

“Yeah, babe. Can you link me to this research?” He grins. “I don’t know if I really want to know what you were looking for when you found it.” 

_I was looking for something to change Jana’s skin tone. Just for a little while. Since she managed to turn yours orange for a bit._

His eyes widen as he remembers the prank war that he and Fulcrum had engaged in. One that had tapered off with assaults and injuries to each other’s loved ones. He can only hope it isn’t because they have both grown up.

_Just found something, Squirt. I’m into the Diktat’s code._

He waits as the cursor on his screen blink. And blinks. He tries to tamp down his impatience, but it seeps into every breath. Impatience at being on the cusp of something that might solve an issue that his friends had bled for. A lost fleet of droid ships that his little brother, Bryne Covenant, had ultimately lost the full use of his birthright for.

“I’m sorry, Phygus,” she whispers.

“What, babe?”

“It’s been encrypted with an extra layer. It needs to be matched with a code from the manufacturer.”

He slumps. “Kuat,” is all that he says.

“Yeah. In their old files. Since the Empire is basically running them and Sienar now, they have possession of them. The key is in those files. I’m so sorry,” she says again.

“Not your fault dear. Maybe we can find what repository the key is in.”

“I’ll look, Phy,” she says. 

He smiles at the diminutive of his name. “Take a break. If you can, send that medical stuff to me. I’ll give it to Heg.”

_Okay. Maybe I’ll relax by finding something to torture Jana and Covenant with. If I can break them apart since they got back together. Glad their cabin is soundproofed. Love you._

Phygus manages not to fall off of his stool at the casual text at the end.

_Progress._

~=~=~=~=~=

Dani watches as Hegridhara adjusts the medication flowing into Shyla’s veins. The former Diktat is sleeping peacefully; there hadn’t been any more seizures for several hours. Powerful generic antitoxins had helped combat whatever had been introduced into her body.

He smiles at Dani as she touches Shyla’s forehead tenderly. “The new information that I have received from certain sources may help her. I am working on a possible antidote. It is slow going. That poodoo is very unstable,” he says, his dark eyes growing angry. “Do you think that the Hutts could be involved?”

“I don’t know, Heg,” she says. “It seems like everybody is involved.”

He nods, reaches up and kisses her on the forehead. “I’ve contacted another doctor and geneticist. We’ll have to be careful, as he is trying to stay off of the Empire’s sensors. He may be the difference with his genetic knowledge.” Heg kisses her again, steps down from his stool, and walks out.

Dani closes her eyes. After a moment, she opens them, as if making a decision. She kicks off her shoes and pulls her gunbelt off, resting the weapon on the nightstand. She climbs into the medbed, careful not to disturb any sensors or medication feeds. She pulls Shyla close to her. The ex-Diktat murmurs, snuggles closer.

As Dani’s eyes grow heavy with the now-even breathing of the woman in her arms, she thinks of her dead. Her last sensation is of a cool, scarlet hand on her forehead, a pair of wise violet eyes looking down at her.

 _I didn’t get to hold you in my arms one last time_ , Dani thinks.

As consciousness leaves her, she hears Shaak Ti’s warm voice in her head. _You were there, my love. My last thoughts were of you._

+=+=+=+=+=

Hegridhara enters his office. He starts at the two figures sitting in his guest’s chair. “Hello, Dr. Antilles,” he says to the younger one. “I am glad you are here.”

“I came as soon as I could, Doctor. I’ve been catching up on all of the research. Think I may be able to help. At least increase the amount of damage we can mitigate.”

“Call me Heg. Let’s get started.”

“You can call me Dek, in private,” the younger man says. 

Heg nods. He finally acknowledges the other person sitting somewhat patiently in the other chair. “Didn’t expect you to be involved,” he says dryly.

“I’m interested in funding some of Dek’s work.” The dark eyes lighten with a smile. “Plus he knows someone that I’m interested in meeting. Someone who’s apparently dead like him.”

Heg merely stares at the other man. Garm Bel Iblis meets his gaze evenly.

+=+=+=+=+=

Tera Moj walks in and sits down at table in the back. The establishment does not welcome those who have not earned the right to drink in its dingy, private darkness. 

Tera has, by killing a couple of now-ex-regulars who had questioned her right to be there. A bottle appears, along with two glasses. Her blue eyes widen at the tiny figure climbing into the booth.

“Hello, Thittan,” she says. “What are you doing on Corellia?”

“Cleaning up your mess, darling.” the executive says. 

“What do you mean? Xizor gave me leave to carry out this project.”

“He didn’t give you leave to kill a former President of this world,” he retorts. 

“How do you know that I did?” she asks, her anger apparent on her features.

“Because it has your ham-fisted techniques all over them. Yours and your brother’s.”

She stands up. “I don’t have to listen to this. I have proven my loyalty to the Prince.”

“Sit down,” he says quietly and in a voice full of cold menace.“You need to leave Corellia,” he says. “Get out of here, or the Prince will disavow you and send someone to end you.” He smiles. “It would be very easy to end someone not of his Family.”

“You don’t speak for him, little rat,” she says. “You are something I would scrape off of my shoe, you misshapen—,”

“Yes. But you’re so big on family. I’m family to him, even if I am misshapen and small. I am of the blood.”

He gets up and leaves.

Tera is silent. She pulls out her comm. She stares at the device, at the ten ignored calls to a certain code. 

_A call to family._

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka screams as the light blossoms behind her eyelids. She moves up and down on him, increasing her speed. For his part, Bryne matches her movements with the original speed, producing a counterpoint to her rapidity. She feels his teeth on her shoulder and its corresponding lek as he closes to the brink. He stiffens as her orgasm bursts again, as his follows.

She doesn’t have to shove hard for him to slump on his back. She lies on top of him, still connected. Her lek twitches contentedly against his chest as her long fingers twine in his chest hair. Her eyes light on the large bruise on his right shoulder, covering the mass of scar tissue. Ahsoka rises up, her left hand tracing over the fading discoloration, her eyes growing pained.

Bryne reaches up and pulls her head back down to his chest. She relaxes, listening to his heart beat. After a moment, he breaks the silence. “I’m okay, Runt,” he whispers. “Much better now that you’re in my arms.” His hand moves over her rear lek, a ripple along its surface following the miniscule pressure.

She opens her Force-sense, listening to more than his steady heartbeat. Her mind detects so many sounds that most people have never dreamed of—sounds of his life. “How do you always manage to get hurt, Jame?” she asks quietly. “It was like that when you were a Jedi.”

He is silent for a moment. “Don’t know, Runt,” he says. “Master Ti always joked about it with me and the rest, but I could see how much she hurt for me.”

“I do, too,” she whispers. 

“How are the chest pains, _cyarika_?” he asks. 

She turns her head, her face to his skin. She smiles against him.. “Don’t deflect, bud,” she says. “They’re fine. Medical droid says everything looks and sounds good.”

“Close run thing, though, love,” he says. “Another hour or two and your heart might’ve seized from the drug.”

“Yeah, well, what about Nola? You told me she managed to nearly give herself a stroke trying to prove she could resist that Falleen’s pheromones. What the hell was she thinking?”

He kisses her, allowing his tongue to explore her mouth. “She was thinking that she has to prove herself, again,” he says. 

Ahsoka sits up. “To who?” she asks. Her eyes widen at his look. “Why does she think that? I’ve never doubted her. Even when she pissed me off, I knew that at the end of the day, I could always count on her. At least to do what she thought was right.”

“Have you told her that, lately, Ahsoka?” She opens her mouth, then closes it. “She’s been so torn up at deceiving us,” he continues. “We both know why she did it. Hell, I practically told her to do it. So did Bail, apparently.” He touches her cheek as he continues. “She doesn’t know what she’s is going to do. She may not have a home on Alderaan, or even back on Naboo. I think she could stand to hear from those that she loves.”

He lies back and lets her absorb that. Ahsoka is awake long after he sleeps.

 _I forgive you, Nola_ , she thinks as her eyes grow heavy. _I can’t gain him just to lose someone else._

+=+=+=+=+=

Tamsin walks into the small lounge on the old _Consular_. Her eyebrows rise, then push a smirk over her features. She looks pointedly at Fulcrum’s and Covenant’s hands intertwined. Both return her look, then slowly disengage, their fingers sliding off of one another, breaking the contact at the last possible moment.

She can’t decide whether the Alderaani half or the influence of certain Mandalorian mentors causes her to throw fuel on the fire. She walks over and places her hands on either side of Covenant’s face and bring his lips to hers.

He doesn’t immediately push her away. Tamsin feels the blue eyes on her, with their heat. She breaks away. Ahsoka’s eyes remain on her, then move to the Corellian.

“Great,” Ahsoka says. “Yet another reason that the ‘ _stone_ needs a bacta tank. Between you and Kolan....”

Tamsin is rewarded by a raised Corellian eyebrow at her next words. “Didn’t seem to need one when you were washing the colors out of my hair,” she says to ‘Jana’.

“So where is Kolan?” Jana asks, changing the subject slightly. _Okay, drastically._

“He had to go,” Tamsin says. “Said he had something personal to take care of.”

Bryne nods slightly. “Okay. We need to figure something out.”

The door opens and the rest of the brain trust walks in. Boge and Murta immediately head for the caf setup. Drop and Talle walk over to sit next to the other three. Before she sits, Talle walks to each of the three in turn, collecting a tight hug and a kiss from each of them.

“How come none of you greet me like that?” Drop asks. 

“You’re not as cute as she is,” comes the stereo answer from the two women. 

“She’s less trouble, too,” Covenant adds. 

“Yeah, well. You can feed her then. Maybe if you get to work on breakfast, bud, we can solve the universe’s problems.”

There is a murmur of assent from the assembly. Tamsin grins as he rolls his eyes. 

“Come on Talle,” he says. “Let me teach you some things in the galley, so maybe you can cut down on your dad’s whining when he’s peckish.”

Tamsin’s smile softens as she sees Covenant and his new assistant head to the galley. She notices that Fulcrum’s eyes glisten. She touches the rebel’s hand, nodding. 

Her other hand touches a datachip in her pocket. One that an ex-ISB agent had given her before he left. One that might lead them to solve one of their problems.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka watches as the crew finishes the breakfast that Bryne had prepared. She finishes stirring her fresh cup of caf as she watches everyone settle in.

“Okay,” she says. “I think that we have two big problems that everyone is trying to solve. One, where’s Meglann gotten to? Two, how can we solve the issue of the Seppie fleet?” She looks at Bryne. “As far as I’m concerned, the first one is our priority. Maybe we should combine our resources.’

Bryne looks at her evenly. “Until we know where Antol has gone with her or if Nola finds something on Ganthel, I think that we can all concentrate on number two.”

He stops as his comm chimes. He smiles at the young slicer finishing up a Pantoran breakfast pastry. “Right. Ano has pointed out that there may be an alternative to the droid ships. The Corellian _Katana_ fleet, if we can find it, could be powerful foundation to build upon, when we need it.”

Ahsoka nods. “Yes. But I still want to make sure that the droid ships are destroyed, at least, if they exist and we can’t use them.”

“Agreed,” Tamsin says. She pulls out a datachip. “Dav gave me this before he left. There’re a couple of files on there that might be of interest—something he came across before he began exploring opportunities in the private sector.” She plugs the chip into a reader. A holo pops up on a screen. Two different map references are shown. Both with one set of coordinates.

“Number one’s a Republic map reference. The one on the right’s an Imperial reference, published a few months back. Note what is missing.”

Drop nods. “A system called Scarif. It’s gone from the map. If you weren’t looking, it would be missing.” Ahsoka sees his jaw lock. “The longnecks did it with Kamino, before the war.”

She nods, remembering a long ago campfire story from Obi-Wan Kenobi. A story of a rainswept fight with Jango Fett, the same night that he discovered the existence of the clones.

Bryne is thoughtful, in a look that Ahsoka has come to recognize. “I’ve been to Scarif. A mission just before the war with Quinlan Vos. We busted up an art smuggling ring.” He grins. “Nice beaches,” he says softly. He looks at Tamsin. “Why the interest. What’s so special?”

She nods. “Good question. It doesn’t make sense to hide it, until Dav happened to find something about Secor, his favorite obsession, apparently.”

Ahsoka touches Bryne’s hand as they look at each other with understanding.

“Cargo manifest for Scarif includes datacaches. The huge ones that can hold millions of terabytes of data.” He reaches out and takes a sip of her caf. “Ones they use in central data vaults.”

“So that’s Secor’s project,” Ahsoka says quietly.

“Appears so. Dav also left something for Covenant that might help get in.” Tamsin reaches over Covenant and touches Ahsoka’s arm. “He said that you probably wouldn’t like it, Fulcrum.

Bryne is unable to meet Ahsoka’s eyes. _He already knows_ , she thinks. _They’ve already cooked up something._

+=+=+=+=+=

Bryne Covenant puts the shaver down and looks into the mirror. _Well, that’s it. Looks like you’re committed,_ he thinks. _Unless you really want to keep the Mace Windu cue-ball look._

He looks down as he thinks of Ahsoka’s anger at the revelation of his mission. A mission given to him in an attempt to help his sometime ISB contact settle a debt. A debt to a former commander, responsible in part for his ‘death’ and exile.

“Dammit, this is stupid, Tempest,” she says, her blue eyes flashing. 

_Know I’m in trouble when she uses my codename, and not my name or her name for me_ , he thought. 

“You don’t have to prove anything.” She punched his arm. He had tried not to rub where she had hit. “I don’t want you risking everything on your life on some wild-ass scheme of Kolan’s. You may trust him, but I’m not sure.

His own eyes flashed dangerously. “Fulcrum,” he started. _Two can play this game, Runt_. “He did save your life. That gives him a lot of cred in my book.”

She looks down. “I know. I know that he also helped Nola on Bothawui,” she whispers. “Something you’d neglected to tell me.”

Ahsoka Smirked, and touched his face. “Of course, he offered to fight me for you. A finger-war. Said that was all of his energy you were worth, but did say your ass wasn’t half-bad, though. He must have some Mando in him. You’re always looking at my ass when you think I am not noticing.”

He hadn’t said what immediately flashed to his mind. It might have thrown fuel on the fire. Instead, he had tried to imitate an adult, at least in his humor. “Ahsoka. I have to do this. This is what we set this whole legend up for. I’ve had plenty of undercover experience—plus I have been to Scarif before. I know that you’re going to follow some of the intel we got when we put Ano’s virus in Rae’s ship. You’re going to backtrack the nav information.” He reached over and had let his tongue explore her mouth. “Especially if it takes your mind off of those droid ships that you feel that you have to find,” he continued when they had come up for air. He had known instantly that he’d said the wrong thing, as her expression hardened. 

“So, I’m obsessed? Is that what you’re saying, Tempest?” She pokes him in the chest. “You have a lot of nerve. I’ve let you go after Meglann. All the while knowing that you were trying to relieve some of the blame you felt. But I think I might not be the one with the biggest obsession.”

He feels his own face growing hot. “So we’re going to discount your self-blame for what happened to my Force-connection? I told you before that I would gladly do it again. You’re the Fulcrum. I’m a cog.”

She had stepped back as if struck. Only for a moment, as she moved right back into his space.

“You’re as big of an asshole as Kolan ever was,” she had spit out. “You were never a cog to me.” A half sob had burned into his hearing with the last words.

“I—,” he starts. He looks away. “I’m a cog to the big picture.”

He shakes his head at the memory of the conversation, as well as what had happened next. Both of them stalking out of the compartment, with thunderous looks on their faces. The memory of her last words comes back to him. _You can’t depend on the Force for your Shadow abilities, Jame. You’ll get yourself killed, with this ‘place in the universe’ crap._

Covenant pulls his shirt on. He then picks up the last piece of his armor needed for the next few weeks. He pulls it on and fastens the flap at his shoulder.

He stares at the stranger in the mirror. A clean-shaven—both head and face—ISB field officer with one hard green eye, and a red-tinted cybernetic version in the other. A costume for an audience on the stage of a new, barely started Imperial base.

He closes his eye. _Guess we haven’t grown as much as we thought._


	14. Meglann: Nature was an Opal Apron,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Ruling Pryde of Ganthel, based on the one continent not covered by industry and mining is a hereditary chieftainship, held currently and for the last thousand years by the Held clan of the Central Plains of the Home-Continent. The traditional regnal name, the Conyl, is a version of a word for the hawklike predators of the skies above the plains. The Ruling Pryde traditionally adopts the name of Conlyn._
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> _Currently, Jez Held holds the belt of the Conyl, though he has not been seen in months by his family, a practice continued by the new Imperial Advisor._
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> From a Royal White Paper prepared for Her Majesty, Queen Breha of Alderaan

Nola Vorserrie watches with irritation as her new guardian sits across from her, stonefaced, in civilian clothing. She knows that the face that he presents is not his own, courtesy of the hologram. When they had entered the Government Pryde-Keep on Ganthel for the first time, over two weeks ago, he had been barred from wearing his armor and carrying weapons. 

She is fairly certain that he carries a few anyway. 

_Pity one of them isn’t a personality_ , she thinks. _Guess Covenant isn’t paying him to have one._ She had tried to engage him in conversation during the long hyperspace trip from Raxus to Ganthel. He had ignored her, concentrating on whatever task at hand had captured his attention.

He had especially ignored her when the subject of Covenant and the history he shared with the bounty hunter came up. She had, on many occasions, thought about flashing him. She wasn’t sure that would have engendered more than a raised eyebrow. 

Nola allows her anger to subside again at Covenant’s move. She shakes her head. _He’s doing what he thinks is right_ , she tells herself. Something she had been telling herself that she had once done. The taste of ashes fills her mouth. She closes her eyes.

“You are thinking about Covenant and his hiring of me, aren’t you?” a dry voice of Mandalore intrudes into her reverie. She feels her eyes snap open.

“What’s it to you?” she snaps, her default response. She curses herself.

“Nothing much. I just saw you be angry for a second, then let the anger calm.”

“How do you know it’s about Covenant?” 

A hint of dry humor pervades the voice. “Who else would piss anybody off like that?” Boba asks.

In spite of herself, she giggles for an instant before cutting it off. “Point taken,” she says. “But you haven’t said anything in two weeks. Why start with Covenant?”

“Not really about Covenant. I’ve been studying you, Vorserrie. I try to study any of my principals closely, on the rare bodyguard job I take. I want to know how you’ll react, so I learn your emotional cues. Might keep you, but more importantly, me, alive.”

“Nice to see that you care, Boba,” she says, her own dry tint marking her voice.

“I don’t, actually. But any edge I can get, might make the difference in whether you are free, or on your way back to Alderaan in binders.”

“So what am I feeling now, Mr. Empath?” she asks.

“A bit pissed off. But you’re intrigued. I’ve seen you looking at the official portrait of the Senator on the wall over there about fifteen times every hour we have been here. You might be interested a bit.”

She knows that he sees the deep blush. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she deflects.

The door to the office opens. A very large human male, his thick arms bare, stares at them, gray eyes locking on Boba.

“I am the Senator’s Guardian, Behntu. She will see you now. You can leave your hired thug out in the hall.”

Nola rises, shaking her head. “No,” she says. “He comes in with me.”

“Milady, Ganthelian hospitality gives you absolute protection in a meeting. I was sworn to protect the Senator and Conyl-ach, as well as her guests, with my life, from the time that she and I were children. You have my word.”

Nola starts to protest. Boba touches her arm. “It’s alright. I think he takes his oath pretty seriously. I’ll be outside if you need me. You have your panic button.”

She sees Behntu move closer to Fett. The hulking Guardian bows from the waist to the bounty hunter. After a moment, Boba inclines his head, the look on his disguised face one of surprise.

Nola takes a deep breath and follows Behntu into the room.

+=+=+=+=+=

Bryne Covenant, now known as ISB Specialist _Aurek-00_ , massages his right eye as he sits in his quarters. He opens his eye, checking it in the mirror. The constant wearing of the fake ‘cybernetic implant’ has caused strain in the other eye. He pulls the sunshades down from his smooth head and looks out over the bay at the two stardestroyers that now sit across from one another, above the rising towers directly opposite. The second one had returned last night. Listening to the prattle of nervous Imperials around him, he had heard that Secor had returned from a conference on Coruscant. A conference with the Emperor about delays in this project. 

A link of burst traffic with Ano Lessi, somewhere in the unknown regions on the _Jamestyn’s Hope_ , relayed by the much closer _Draq’stone_ , had gotten him into the mainframe to figure out the lay of the land. His identity and code cylinders, purloined by Dav Kolan at some point in his flight from Imperial-dom had helped with the rest. His ability to blend in the walls allowed him to listen to the gossip and official orders around him. 

It had not yet gotten him onto the Stardestroyer commanded by Talonga—his primary objective for this entire little sojurn on the beach.

A communication with the other ImpStar might aid him with that, now that Moff Secor had returned. As far as he knew, Secor and Antol had not quite deigned to meet each other. Something that might facilitate both of his objectives for the Rebellion. 

Another burst from Nola had revealed that she had finally gotten a meeting. A meeting that hopefully might confirm that Meglann was with Antol, rather than slaving away with the other labor levies now arriving daily from Ganthel.

Bryne sighs. He stands and walks towards the door, making sure that the eyepiece was on straight. He opens it and walks into the hallway.

His eyes widen as a young Rutian Twi’lek stands there, a broom in his hands. Bryne’s eye locks on a small necklace around the Twi’lek’s neck. A small token from a beautiful, peaceful world. A symbol of favor given out by the royal family of Alderaan.

He had not been there when the little girl had given one to a young diner owner on a ‘family night’ a few months ago. He had seen it around her neck, later, in the dim light of the back office of that diner, as his lips touched it and the skin around it in a moment of light.

He looks left and right, then grabs the young Twi’lek, pulling him into his quarters.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola’s eyes adjust to the dim light of the office. She looks around as the Guardian takes his position between the desk and her—a position that he could easily reach either from. 

The room is appointed with rich wool tapestries, intermixed with airy, light colored scarves draped and hanging from the windows. A slight breeze from the Keep grounds moves over her face. Her eyes lock on a small flame burning in a bowl on a large iron tripod. A rich, unfamiliar scent wafts from the bowl to her nostrils.

Her eyes lock on the woman standing in front of the large table. She is shorter than Nola, but with her own strength as she gazes at the Naboo through dark eyes. She is clad in a flowing light blue skirt and top, a color that complements her ebony skin. A small veil, now open, is attached to a diadem in the woman’s long hair. Nola’s eyes travel down to the bare midriff, then hastily back up, as she realizes that the woman is appraising her with a broad smile on her face.

Nola bows. “Senator, my name is Nola Vo—,” she starts.

“I know who you are,” the woman says. “Bail Organa is a ally of mine in the Senate. He speaks very highly of you.” Her smile fades, then hardens. “Or at least he did.” She looks at Nola. “I’m Sloane Conlyn. Heir to the Conyl—the hereditary Chieftain of Ganthel, and Imperial Senator for my world.” The last she says with a degree of distaste.

Nola closes her eyes, releases the breath that she has been holding. She looks down, then into the Senator’s eyes. “I know. I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m here representing someone who is very dear to the Organas. A young woman who’s found herself on your world, held against her will, through no fault of her own.”

“I find that hard to believe, Ms. Vorserrie,” Conlyn says

Nola holds her temper. “It’s true. She was seized on Raxus by Ganthelian Commerce-Takers. I have witnesses who can place her there when she was taken.”

“These witnesses. Are they here? Do they have any other evidence?” Senator Conlyn asks. 

“No, but—,” Nola starts. 

“I review all cases of Commerce-Taker actions. The young woman that you speak of, one Elann Gort, interfered with legal commerce. The logs show that she did so here on Ganthel.”

Nola stares at her. “She was on Raxus,” she says again. “We tracked her movements there, but not to Ganthel. At least until she was _kidnapped_.” Nola feels her anger rising, tries to calm it, but fails with the emphasis on the last word. “She was brought here to be a slave. You can call it a pretty term like ‘indentured servitude’, but it’s nothing but slavery. She’s an innocent, who merely tried to help another innocent on a world not covered by your laws.” She takes a step towards the woman. She feels the Guardian tense.

Conlyn continues to gaze at her calmly. She waves the massive protector away. “You’ll have to forgive Behntu. He was sworn to me when he reached the age of majority. We grew up together. In many ways he is more a brother to me than my own, who left our world behind while I was a child. He would die for me, but I think I would die for him as well. Even though our laws don’t dictate that.”

“A slave in fancy clothing is still a slave, Senator,” Nola whispers.

Sloane’s eyes flash, then calm. “You’re right. But he has never been indentured. He’s an orphan. My family took him in, raised him with me. They gave him training for an aptitude that he showed early on. They gave him options. Employment with our security forces, or a chance to serve as my protector.” She walks over to Behntu. She rests her forehead against his paler chest.

Even at this distance, Nola can see the mutual respect. 

“He still has that choice,” Conlyn says. “We’re a strange world. A mix of peoples. A mix of the old and the new. The Indentures Law was a way to ease overcrowding of our prisons from hundreds of years ago. It also served to rehabilitate prisoners by giving them a marketable skill. Since the Empire,” she spits this word out, “came into being, it has morphed into something darker. More sinister. I wish that I could end it. But the conservative enclaves have fought any attempts, as have the industrial Prydes. I have not seen my father—the Conyl, in three years. I don’t know if he’s alive or not,” she whispers. “The Imperial Advisor rules in his name. Her rule could become more stringent, if waves are made.”

Sloane walks over to Nola. “So you can see the dilemma that I am in, Ms. Vorserrie.” She smiles. “Nola.”

Nola looks down, then over at the Guardian. She sees something in his eyes that she had not noticed before, as he looks at the Senator. “You said that Behntu always had a choice. I ask that you give Meglann Florlin that choice as well—,” She stops as she notices Sloane’s pained expression. An expression mirrored on Behntu’s strong features.

“Senator, what—?”

“Wait here, Nola. I have to check something. Your protector can come in. I will have food sent in.”

With that, she lifts a matching cloak and moves out of the chamber at a quick pace. Behntu follows her out, leaving Nola staring at the door behind them.

**The Past: One Week Before Empire Day 5**

Dorith Panteer watches as Leeza Antol walks from the small house and enters the landspeeder. 

“So?” he asks, kissing her.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Somar was being replaced?”

He feels his eyes widen. He fights to resume the placid expression on his face. “First I’ve heard of it. Usually the Oversight Committee confirms new appointments. How did he find out?”

“I don’t know,” Leeza, says, pushing him away as his hand moves up her skirt. “He seemed pretty sure of it.”

“Did he say who was replacing him?” Dorith asks, as the speeder moves out. He moves his hand back onto the skin of her leg.

“Some Corellian,” she says, allowing the hand to remain.

Dorith quiets. Only the sound of the engine and the rustling of gaberwool fabric in rhythm with his hand can be heard.

Leeza picks up her comm. He watches her as she catches her breath. Panteer notices this is not her Imperial-issue device.

An oddly cadenced voice answers. “What? I told you not to call me,” the voice says.

Leeza rolls her eyes. “Shut up, brother. I think that you might want to step up your visits to your little diner. I hear the food is good and the company is attractive.” Dorith watches her face harden. “Maybe she should be less attractive. It might serve two purposes. We’ll get a base for the soldiers, and we might be able to draw Malikarus out.”

Dorith ignores the rest of the conversation as he thinks of the current Queen and her Hand. He thinks of their maneuverings. He thinks of their faces when he outmaneuvers them both.

Thoughts of them; of refusals made, color his vision red. He hears a growl from beside him. He realizes that his fingers have tightened on Leeza’s thigh. He stares at the finger marks on the smooth skin, just as her teeth lance into his lower lip.

**The Present**

Leeza Antol taps her foot impatiently as she waits in the anteroom of Moff Jano Secor’s flag quarters on his Stardestroyer. She looks at Cantos Lardai, who is, for once, in the full uniform of a naval commander, albeit with many more hidden and obvious weapons than regulation. There is an extra complement of Antol’s personal guards including her four allotted Deathtroopers. She is taking no chances, since being summoned by her nominal superior for this project.

Leeza thinks of the young secret that she has concealed on her destroyer. A secret who had refused to reveal what her connection was to Secor. Meglann had said she didn’t even know who Secor was.

Leeza had been tempted to allow Lardai to loosen her tongue, as she had offered while lying in Leeza’s arms one night. Leeza shakes her head. She was sure that this meant literally, given Cant’s affinity for bladed weapons. 

Lardai’s comm dings. She excuses herself. Leeza eyes her wife as she leaves the room. _This has been happening with frequent regularity,_ she thinks. _Going off on her own for varying periods of time._

Including one trip a ten-day ago. When pressed, she had mentioned family business.

As far as she knew, Leeza Antol was now her only family. She stares at Lardai as she returns to the cabin. 

Antol turns and studies the endless ocean below the destroyer. She knows that many people in the universe would be well satisfied with spending the rest of their lives alongside a bay and beach combination such as this. She is not one of them. She would atrophy in such calmness and boredom. It had been that way since she was a child, growing up in the ‘family business’ on Naboo. Watching her less-skilled but older brothers rise to the top. She had sought another path, off of that world, but had been drawn back in. 

She had shown those inept brothers the folly of their advancement, with the help of the commando staring daggers at Secor’s fleet troopers, standing between them and their objectives.

The door opens. A young male officer, his dark eyes hard, limps out into the anteroom.

As she rises to follow him, Colonel Leeza Antol catches a brief look between the two junior officers. It is only a brief look, but it appears to speak volumes. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Fit watches in fear as the human with the mechanical eye stares at his chest. He shrinks back as the human reaches out. He sees the fearsome man’s good eye widen, then soften. A warm smile splits the human’s face softening it even more. The human, in Imperial uniform, reaches up, and yanks the metal plate over his head and left eye off, leaving a normal eye with a deep green hue—matching the other.

“Easy, son. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m looking for someone. She once wore a necklace just like that one. It’s pretty unique.” A warm voice with a slower cadence sounds in Fit’s ears.

He looks into the human’s eyes. He sees the warmth, but he sees something else as well. Fit takes a deep breath. He sees someone worthy of trust. “A friend of mine gave it to me, when she thought we were going to be separated. We weren’t at that time, but I didn’t have time to give it back to her.”

“You thought you were going to be separated?” the human asks.

“Yes, sir. A scary man got us away together, but we were attacked. Two very scary women took my friend.” Fit sees the man’s eyes flash with brief anger. “Tell me, sir. Are you the one that my friend calls the ‘hunter’?”

The smile, crooked, but warm returns. “That depends. Who’s your friend?”

Fit decides to leap. “Her name is Meg-lann,” he whispers.

He is treated to something like relief in the human’s eyes. “Yes. I‘ve been called that before. How did you know?”

“We would talk. She loved telling of her friends. You. A couple of red women—Zel-trons, she called them.” Fit lets his own warm smile grow. “Another in particular. One she called her huntress. I could tell that all of you were important to her, but she....”

He trails off, as if he had revealed something important. “You can call me Bryne, if you like. I know what you mean about the huntress. About them all.” Bryne straightens up. “I don’t know the Ryl words, but I know what they mean.” He bows his head. “May I ask the gift of your name?”

Fit stands as straight as he ever has. “I am Fitanzujua’taro. My friends call me Fit.”

The human does something no other being except Meg-lann has ever done. He holds out his right hand out to Fit. Fit remembers what he had seen in the restaurant. He takes the hand. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you Fitanzuju of clan Ataro,” Bryne says. 

Fit’s eyes tear. “You can call me Fit, I think,” he whispers. 

After a moment, Bryne’s eyes widen as he sees the badge on Fit’s rough tunic. “That is an all access pass? How did you get it?”

“Another scary man, one more scary than you, now that you have taken that thing off, gave it to me. He has had me looking around the scary woman’s ship—the one in the white tunic. She was going to listen to Meg-lann’s argument that she was taken illegally, before all of this happened.”

“What does he want with Antol’s ship? The scary woman?” Bryne asks.

“He wants to find Meg-lann. For his boss.”

Bryne nods. Fit sees his concentration. Another smile, this one more devilish, spreads over his face. “You think you can get close to the Captain of her ship?”

+=+=+=+=+=

Jano Secor turns as Leeza Antol walks into his office. The last time they had been in the same room, Antol was at the height of her power, as interim Director of ISB.

He paints a smile on his face. “Ahh, Colonel. Welcome to Scarif. Glad to see that you finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

Antol smiles, an expression that does not raise the warmth on her beautiful features. “Yes, Moff. It’s good to be here, after toiling away, making sure that you had the labor to actually accomplish anything on your project.”

Both smiles fade. “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, we can get down to business. I’ve been reliably informed that you have something of mine. That you took something from a former employee of mine.”

“Really, Moff? I was informed that Dait Gordo actually worked for your rival, Moff Poldar,” Leeza says. 

Jano smiles tightly, his features growing even colder. “Yes. He actually worked for me first, back in the Clone War. He was nothing but an agent for Zygerrian slavers when I plucked him out of obscurity. Pity about his untimely demise. But he did have a propensity for playing one employer against the other. Especially when my operative learned that he had what I was looking for all along.”

“Interesting bit of history, Moff,” she says, “but your sources are wrong. I have nothing of yours.” Her expression hardens. “Much less a young woman that you seem to have torn up the galaxy looking for.”

“Careful, Leeza. In spite of your pet psychopath here, it would be very easy for you to have an accident. This is, after all, a naval vessel.” He touches the healing skin of the side of his face. “They’re dangerous places.”

“I’ll be careful, Moff. You’ll find that I am a quick learner. Plus, I have a naval vessel of my own. A newer one.”

“It will be a pity when I am watching you being strangled. It would’ve been glorious for us to work together instead of at odds. Especially since we have so much in common—common in our family history.”

“Really, Moff? I know that either you or your brother worked very hard at fucking my brother’s wife to produce this bastard here,” she says as she points at the silent aide, “but we aren’t related.”

“Our clans are, Leeza. You and yours are not Chandrilan exiles as you like to tell as a fairy tale. You are Mandalorian. Clan Antol of House Malika. We’re of the same House.”

Leeza is silent. “Malika, huh? So you might be the one that is using that version of the ‘Malaky’ figure to do your dirty work.” She grins. “I wondered who might be trying to steal their ‘thunder’.”Her grin turns into laughter. It stills after a moment at Secor’s blank expression. 

She shakes her head. “You’re wrong, old man. The Antols are not Mandalorian or Chandrilan. That’s the past. We’re Antols. We endure.” She stands up. “I’m the _Antol’icha_ of the Family. I await whatever threat you might have for me and mine.” 

She and Lardai spin on their heels and leave.

Secor watches the door, then turns to Adede. “Have you found her, yet?”

“No, _buir_ ,” the young officer says. 

“Don’t call me that. Until you earn it,” Secor spits out.

Adede bows without reply. “My operative will search her ship again. I’ll find her.”

“See that you do. Don’t make me regret claiming you as my son,” the Moff says coldly, as he turns towards the window, watching the activity of his domain.

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola sits at the table, picking at the remains of her meal. She feels Boba’s eyes on her. She turns towards him. He has deactivated the hologram; his familiar face stares at her from behind the facial hair around his mouth. For about the millionth time since she had met him, she sees Captain Tone’s staring eyes next to her in that cold cell on Z’ambique. 

“You have a look again, Vorserrie,” he says.

“What look?” she asks. 

“The one that says that you are mourning someone. Someone who looks like me.” He holds up his hand. “No. Don’t give me any of that ‘brothers’ bullshit that King and others peddle. I was an only child. The others are just copies.”

She manages to tamp down her anger. She turns around without a word, back to the study of cold scrambled eggs.

“Who was he?” Boba asks. 

She finally turns around. “He was a clone captain who died on a nice little garden spot called Z’ambique at the end of the war. A Separatist piece of filth named Durd killed him when I didn’t tell him my name fast enough.” She picks up her caf cup, stares into it. “He thought I was being defiant. He killed Tone to prove a point. He then put him in my cell so that I would wake up to his staring eyes every morning.” She takes a sip of caf. “No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get his eyes to close.”

“I didn’t really know that many clones, Nola,” Boba says, for the first time using her given name. “But I do know they were brave. Even if their bravery and loyalty was misplaced for the Republic.”

Nola’s eyes flash. _Everybody has a story, No-no_ , she thinks as she calms. She closes her eyes.

She takes a deep breath, then continues. “The truth of the matter is, he didn’t have to die. I wasn’t being brave. I was too damned terrified to get the words of my name out.”

Nola stops, suddenly feeling as if a weight has lifted from her shoulders. At least until she sees Boba looking at her, his expression blank.

“The Republic threw me into an adult jail when I was just becoming a teenager,” he says. “They said that they didn’t have the juvenile facility to hold someone who had done what I did. Plus, they tried to say I was property of the Republic, since I was another clone, to them, of Jango Fett. I wasn’t a clone. I was his son.”

Nola reaches out and touches his hand. He doesn’t immediately withdraw. “The truth is, Nola, none of us will ever have true agency, unless we let go of the past. You—you can’t stop thinking that you caused Tone’s death—you’ve probably been trying to live up to his life since then. But you have a chance—a slim chance to let go. Durd probably would’ve killed him anyway. Or he might have just put the bolt in your head. You can’t know.” She moves her hand up to his face. He takes his own deep breath. “Me. I will probably never let go. I know what I’ve done. I blew up a Republic stardestroyer seeking revenge. While I regret those lives lost, I can’t ever let go of what was done to me and my father. I’m fine with that. It’s what makes me good at what I do. It is what will keep you free and unharmed as long as I am paid.”

He takes a sip of caf. “I know that you have questions about me and King.” He looks away, takes several deep breaths. “When Tommis approached me about taking him, I forgot everything that had happened at the end of our fight. I forgot that King let me live; that he tried to teach me some things. I only remembered the shame of being beaten. I let my anger override my good sense. It caused a lot of pain for King and it cost two men their lives. I can try to justify it; say that they were going to fire first, but they wouldn’t have had to shoot, if I had let it go. That’s on me,” he finishes. 

Nola stares into his dark eyes. She weighs everything that she has been taught; everything that she knows. She thinks about her own mistakes; of not being able to let go. She decides that she might try, this one time, as Bryne Covenant apparently had, at least for now. For her. Nola brings her hand to Boba’s cheek. 

He flinches for a moment, then allows it to linger. “I will probably never let go of my dad. But I might try to let go in this instant.” He takes Nola’s hand from his face, but squeezes it before he puts it back in her lap. “Don’t pity me. That is all that I ask.”

After a moment, she nods. “Okay, Boba,” she says. “I think I may have to say some things to someone else, before I can truly let go. Where do we go from here?” His eyes widen at something in her voice.

“I think we go and find your friend,” comes a new voice from the doorway. Sloane Conlyn stands straight, with Behntu next to her. Not a step behind and to the left, but next to her. 

Nola feels her eyes narrow. “How long have you been standing there?” she asks. 

“Long enough to know that I think that I’m glad to know you both.” Nola’s eyes widen at her hooded look. “I think I would like to get to know one of you a little better.”

Nola avoids Boba’s eyes. Boba rolls his. “How do you know she doesn’t mean me?” he asks evenly.

Sloane laughs at them both. “Could be interesting.” Her eyes grow serious. “I may have to do some letting go of my own. I did some research. The two Commerce-Takers who took your friend have disappeared.” She nods at her Guardian. He motions behind them. Two assistants walking in carrying Boba’s armor and weapons. Nola puts her hand on his arm as she feels him tense at the idea of someone else touching them. Sloane walks over and hands her a bag of her own. She opens it. Her blaster and holster rest there.

“I think we should start at the casino. Someone has been buying up indentures there. We don’t know who. I think it bears closer investigation. I am also starting an investigation into Meglann’s taking.” She looks down. “It’s time to let go,” she whispers. She looks at Nola. “I think we will have to come up with something to sell the orthodox faction on ending this. Something that makes this worthwhile. You think that you can help me with that, Nola Vorserrie?”

“I think we can work on that, Senator. I have an idea, based on some research I’ve done. I may need to contact a friend on Pantora.”

“The Joshta mineral?”

“Yep,” is all Nola says. 

Sloane smiles, taking her hand in hers over the blaster belt. “Bail was right about you. I didn’t tell you, but someone else in the Senate is a mentor of mine. She said that you saved her life a while back on Alderaan. Mon said that you were one of the most stubborn, obstinate, and sometimes obnoxious young women she had ever met, but you came through for her.”

Nola smiles. “The Senator is too kind, but I can say that I don’t have the corner on stubbornness and obstinacy in that particular instance. She’s just more charming about it.” 

“Well, some might find such traits charming,” Conlyn says, touching her hand. Both of them ignore Boba and Behntu looking at each other and rolling their eyes.

Nola looks at Sloane as her smile fades. “What put you over the edge?”

The Senator smiles and looks at her Guardian. He nods and matches her smile. “Meglann’s last name. I told you I had a brother. He renounced all claims to the Conyl in favor of me, to be a ceramics artist.” She holds her hand up, pointing at the flame-pot and other pieces. “He was damned good. He fell in love on Alderaan. He married his accountant and they became parents of his husband’s orphaned niece.” Nola’s eyes widen. “Conlyn is our Pryde-name, based on our claim to the Chieftainship. Our family name is Held. My brother’s name was Islan. Islan Florlin-Held after he married.”

Sloane holds out a small holocapture. A young man with the same dark skin and eyes of Sloane Conlyn holds his head next to a bald man with a bronze beard and a version of sparkling brown eyes.

It is the laughing young girl in the middle that holds Nola’s attention. A younger version of a woman who Nola and Ahsoka Tano have laughed with over breakfast food on days when their universe was calmer.

Sloane turns to Behntu. “Go with Mr. Fett and Ms. Vorserrie. You act with the authority of the Conyl. Help her friends find Ms. Florlin. I’ll work on her legal issues.”

Nola’s heart skips as the possibility soars that they will succeed and find Meglann. That they will free her as well. If they can get her away from the Imperials.

**In the First Year of the Clone War**

Dalist Florlin-Held watches with a helpless expression as Meglann screams, her tears hot against his chest. He holds her against him, rocking her gently. Islan watches them—his expression just as helpless. 

The naval officer who had informed them of Elann’s loss stands slightly away from them, her peaked cap held correctly under her arm. 

Lieutenant Jana Sloane places her hat on a chair and crouches down. She touches Meglann’s cheek, her palm resting full on the skin. 

Islan watches her as she speaks. “Meglann, dear. I don’t know if this helps, but I think that someone will tell you that this will be easier. That isn’t always true. I know you’ll always miss your mom. I just want you to know that it’s okay to have that hole in your heart. To keep it there, because it helps you remember her.”

Dalist’s eyes widen through his own grief. Islan nods his thanks to the officer, as Meglann buries her face against the officer’s uniform front.

Dalist notices that Sloane is looking at Islan. “Your little sister sends you a message, cuz,” she says. Islan’s eyes lock on hers. Both Dalist and Meglann look at her through their grief. 

“She says she loves you and misses you. She says that she hopes you bring your loves to see her someday.”

He nods after a moment. “Thank you, Jana. It’s good to see you. How did you get this job?”

“I saw your name on the NOK list. My ship has been relieved after some hard fighting and was in the area, so I took it.” She grins briefly. “Wondered if I would get a chance to get you in a headlock for old times sake.”

All of them hear a giggle against Sloane’s now-tearstained dress blues.

Later, as Meglann finally sleeps, Dalist looks at Islan, sitting next to him on the bed. 

Dalist’s heart sinks as he sees the blood seep from his love’s nose.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann opens her eyes as the warm Scarif sun plays over her bare skin, alternating with the breeze off of the bay. She looks down at herself in the borrowed bathing suit, her now-tan skin tingling. She looks over at the two women lying next to her in similar clothing, or lack of. Leeza Antol’s fingers are stroking Lardai’s back, as her head pillows on her superior’s belly.

 _That could almost look tranquil, if neither one of them gave off the aura of being stone-cold killers._ Her eyes narrow. Lardai especially with her collection of knives and blasters. 

Meglann knows one other woman who has such an affinity for knives. Dani Faygan usually carries upwards of a half-dozen on her body. All ready to be used to defend and protect. Not to murder and terrorize as Lardai does.

Meglann pushes thoughts of Dani and others from her mind. Instead, she thinks of a small collection of tech that she had snagged from various toolcarts on the Stardestroyer. Tech that a long ago military science class had indicated might be useful, in a bit of extracurricular study. She grins to herself. If the University and parents on Alderaan only knew what Captain Rieekan was actually teaching their little darlings.

Now all she needs to do is find a power source. Wouldn’t be enough to damage the ship, but maybe enough to cause some confusion.

She turns over on her stomach. She tries not to flinch as she feels a pair of hands begin rubbing oil on her shoulders and back.

Her last thoughts before falling asleep are of Fit. She only hopes he is at peace. She mourns him and hopes she can live up to his sacrifice. She knows that she can’t do it lying on a damned beach.

+=+=+=+=+=

Leeza looks down at the sleeping young woman, making sure that her breathing is even. She pulls on a wrap over her own skin. “She’s asleep. I think that now is the time to do it. When I’m gone, cut her throat. Leave her on the beach, then somehow notify Secor so that he can find her. She gives a deadly smile. “Let the scavengers have a bit of a feast.”

She reaches down and touches Meglann’s cheek. “Pity.”

Cantos Lardai waits for Leeza to leave. She looks down at Meglann as well. She sees herself as a young girl. Sitting at Jabba’s palace, watching her mother kill one of the Hutt’s enemies. She smiles. 

She draws her knife with her left hand from the belt in her right. She makes her decision. With one swift movement, she thrusts it under the helmet of the Deathtrooper watching her. As he falls, she drops the belt and seizes his blaster, firing it into the facemask of the other.

Meglann jumps up at the noise, fully awake. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, as they fall on the other officer walking up with a complement of fleet troopers.

“Take her,” she says to Adede.

The daughter of Ming Lardai, sworn soldier and enforcer for Jabba the Hutt, watches as the troopers seize Meglann. The young woman struggles as they drag her away.

 _The Antols will be ours, Mother,_ she thinks.

+=+=+=+=+=

Two other sets of eyes watch the girl being dragged away. A figure in stormtrooper armor watches through the rangefinder from the rise of a dune, behind the scrub of tropical plants. 

A young Rutian Twi’lek lies next to him. The trooper pulls his helmet off. They had arrived no more than thirty seconds ago, sent on the rush to the island on an overheard conversation from a fleet trooper in the enlisted lounge. Sitting behind another fleet trooper who had been nursing the same drink for hours.

“Damn it,” Bryne Covenant says. “We could’ve had her.”

“I don’t know, Bryne. I think that we would’ve never gotten off of the beach.”

“Well, at least we know she is safe. I don’t think Secor will cut the throat of someone he has been looking for so hard. Can’t see it as part of his endgame,” Covenant muses. He looks at Fit. “I think we need to solve the other dilemmas; to get the Captain of Antol’s ship close to that chip, and to get to the database on Secor’s ship.”

Fit looks up at him. “I am ready, Bryne. Whatever you need. Meg-lann would be brave for me. I must be brave for her.”

Bryne touches him on the back. “I think you got plenty of bravery to spare, Fit. Meglann will be very proud of you.”


	15. He - sovereign as the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Many leaders of the early rebellion, both known and unknown, proved themselves skilled and able in combatting threats against their own worlds and others. This was especially true of Alderaan, whose Queen proved herself able to move behind the scenes and outwit threats to her throne, as well as Imperial desires to increase their power on her serene world, while her husband, the Viceroy and Senator was able to keep wolves at bay in the Senate, all while maintaining his cover as the Kingmaker of the early rebellion—as a loyal Imperial Senator._
> 
>  
> 
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> Excerpt from Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest, Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

**Two weeks later, Empire Day 5 + 5 months**

Bryne Covenant looks across at the Imperial stardestroyer _Totality_ as his shuttle moves closer and closer. He smiles slightly. It had been the first use of his ISB authority to commandeer the shuttle, other than for snooping around the base and acquiring very private—and very luxurious— quarters for himself. Quarters that were now a sanctuary for the young Twi’lek sitting next to him in the cockpit. A young man who had already proven his resourcefulness in traveling around the various outposts, now with a different type of authority than a naval lieutenant, even one on the base commander’s staff.

His teeth clinch as he remembers meeting the Lieu-ten-ant as Fit had called him in his version of Basic. He had been standing a distance away when Fit had reported to the young officer. Bryne had feigned interest in a scintillating report on his datapad in the officer’s club on the surface.

In reality he had been looking at a scanned sketch. A sketch sent to him by a young Zeltron Handmaiden, who was learning new skills. Skills other than keeping up with the Princess Royal—making sure that the girl at least tacitly obeyed the officious caretaker droid that had begun to take over some of the more mundane duties of hair-braiding. He grins. _That and making sure the Princess kept her clothes on around any public bodies of water_.

A sketch drawn by the uncle of the primary object of his search. Bryne smiles as he remembers the accuracy of the sketch—a work done with much more heart than the ordinary sketch-droid could do. The artist had captured the dead, angry eyes of the Imperial perfectly. An Imperial who had been snooping around on Alderaan, asking questions about Meglann.

He shakes his head, bringing his mind back to the present. He looks at Fit, now clad in a sleeveless tunic that showed off the musculature of his arms, as well as the ISB token around his neck. A code cylinder that gave him access to most areas in the Scarif system rests in a pocket on the chest of the tunic. The cylinder had been cloned from the authority chip that Kolan had somehow wangled, with the help of a couple of slicers that the ex-ISB agent had never met.

His visible eye grows dark as he thinks of the ISB agent abandoning his assistance. He takes a deep breath. _Let it go, Bryne, he thinks. He did enough, helping Nola and Ahsoka, as well as the information._

A voice from the speakers cuts into his consciousness. “Unknown shuttle on approach, identify yourself.” Bryne reaches into the pocket on his shoulder, pulling one of his code cylinders out. He inserts it into the slot. He notices that he and Fit both are holding their breaths.

He looks over at the young man. “Remember, Fit, what we talked about. It’s okay to imply that you are my playtoy, so that the Imps keep their distance. Just don’t get any idea about demonstrating it, just to get close to the Captain.”

“I understand, Bryne,” the young Twi’lek says. “I’m concerned about your role. You are going to try to get into the scary woman’s quarters. If you get caught, the other scary woman might end you.”

“Come on, bud,” Bryne says with a laugh.”Have a little faith. Both in my charm, as well as my skills in not getting ended by ‘scary women.”

Fit rolls his eyes. Something he probably would’ve never thought of doing even two days ago. “I’ve heard stories of your ‘charm’, when Meg-lann told me of her friends. You just told me to not act on any advances from Imperials. Then you imply that you might do a little ‘acting’ of your own.”

“Do as I say, young one, not as I do,” Covenant says. He inwardly winces, suddenly realizing how much he sounded like Quinlan Vos. “Wait, what? What did Meglann tell you about me?”

Fit smirks, an expression that seems to have been passed down to him by the young Alderaani, passed down to her by a slightly older huntress. “She told me how she used to ‘bust your balls’, as she put it. I now see that it might have been very instructional.” 

Bryne closes his eyes as he grins at the legacy of that huntress, especially towards him. “Okay, smartass. Just be careful.”

The voice sounds from the loudspeaker again. “Clearance granted for Bay 3. We welcome the ISB.”

Fit nods at Bryne. “I am ready, Bryne,” he says quietly.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dorith Panteer walks into his office. He stops short, his eyes flashing as they fall on the small being sitting at his desk. Dorith starts to open his mouth.

The being, a green no, blue now, creature with distinctly human features overlaid with the reptilian skin of a Falleen, holds up his hands. “Before you get all arrogant on me, your Grace, you might want to listen to what I have to say. I’d like to talk to you about your grandfather.”

“What about him? He’s not a part of my official life.”

“Oh, come now,” the small figure says, his skin tone transitioning to a more human color, “you and I both know that’s a polite fiction, maintained for the news media and the Palace. I wonder what the rest of the Council of Graces would say if they knew.”

“My grandfather was not charged in the incident. He was only barred from serving in the Council or from public life,” Dorith says, his face flushing with heat.

“Oh, so that’s what they call supervised house arrest these days? I have it on good authority that he was in the Council chamber audience only a few weeks ago.”

“You had better leave. I’ll call security.” Dorith says.

“Go ahead. I’m sure that the _Antol’icha_ will come to your aid.”

Panteer puts his comm down. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Oh, I _am_ sorry. Perhaps you know her as Colonel Leeza Antol of ISB. It’s hard these days to determine where the Imperial official begins and the criminal begins.”

Dorith shakes his head. “What’re you trying to say? Get to the point.”

“Well, your grandfather was not convicted of treason because there was just a smidgen less evidence needed for the burden of proof.” The not-Falleen holds his thumb and forefinger up and apart. “But I think that we have that burden of proof.”

“Who?” Panteer asks.

“My associates. You might’ve them called Black Sun at one time. There are certain financial transactions between your grandfather and a certain restaurant on Naboo—one with, shall we say, a certain reputation for bad food and even worse service. Transactions that guaranteed the Antols a foothold on your world.”

Panteer takes a step towards his desk. He stops when he notices the blaster on the table.

“Smart move, Dory,” the tiny figure sitting at the desk says. He holds up a datachip. “There’s also a conversation on this little piece of tech about wanting to re-establish a male-dominated monarchy, by force if necessary. Your grandfather was one of the participants.”

Dorith sits. “What do you want?”

“Universal peace? A stable of dancing girls and boys? No?” the Falleen says, more snark creeping into his voice. His eyes grow hard. “I think that you need to really rethink your life. Make better choices.”

He stands up, collecting his blaster and pushing past the Councilor.

Dorith remains seated in his guest chair, his eyes focused on the street outside the window.

+=+=+=+=

The Chief Operating Officer of Xizor Transport systems walks out into the misting rain of the Aldera streets. He pulls his cloak closer to him. Thittan checks the immediate area and pulls out a comm. A moment for the encryption to lock and he hears a low growl in his ear. “I’ve given him something to think about. It’s up to him, but we might want to go ahead and implement the final protocol.”

He listens for a moment. He nods. “All right. I’ll go to Scarif. Let me tell other parties, just so they stop wondering.”

He grins at the reply. “I’m sure that I can help certain other parties determine whether their ass is any different from a hole in the ground.”

He clicks off, then removes another comm. “My lord Prince,” he says. “I have news about the Corellia situation.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Fit Ataro takes a deep breath as the turbolift climbs to the bridge of the stardestroyer. He tries to calm his breathing as he thinks about the role he has to play. A role that is outside of helping Meg-lann, but will help Bryne to finish one part of his mission, so that he can find a way to help her. He smiles softly as he thinks of his friend. _She will not need much help,_ he thinks. 

He thinks on Bryne’s instructions of what to do with the small piece of technology around his neck, disguised as his ISB token. He fingers the device. One of Bryne’s compatriots, somebody he referred to a great deal as ‘short-shit’, had fixed it where he would only have to get close to the Imperial captain, to reveal its hidden secrets, without him having to touch the device or look into the scanner. Secrets that another friend of Meg-lann’s was searching for, while Bryne looked for Meg-lann.

Fit closes his eyes. He tries to push the fear away. As he does, an errant memory comes to the forefront of his mind. A time spent watching holodramas on the screens of the restaurant. Of learning about the universe through the news of the Republic and then the Empire. He remembers a particular drama—an adventure show set before the last war. He feels a smile break out over his face. _Isard of the Judicials_. A drama portraying a near infallible agent of all that was good in the Republic. Square-jawed, resolute—steadfast in his pursuit of criminals and threats to the Republic in all its forms. 

He had often escaped from the drudgery of his existence by pretending that he was Armand Isard. It had taken him years to realize that those such as Armand Isard on the holodrama had never existed. Conversations about the old drama with Meg-lann had reinforced that belief. He had learned that the real Armand Isard was now the head of Imperial Security and Intelligence.

The boss of the scary woman who had taken him and had separated him from Meg-lann. He opens his eyes, allowing a blank stare to come into his eyes. A slightly sardonic smile plays over his lips, replacing his softer one. One that he had seen those years ago on the lips of the fictional do-gooder. As he feels the turbolift slow, he realizes something, watching the play of emotions over Bryne’s face as he realized that his blanket belief was not exactly true.

There were those out there in the universe who did things for others, who served the greater good. He was pretty sure that he had met one or two. Maybe even three or four, if you count by proxy—through Meg-lann. 

The lift halts and the doors snap open. He makes sure that his do-gooder face is on. For the role of his life.

+=+=+=+=+=

Captain Georg Talonga watches the bright sunlight play over his command. He sighs heavily as the unchanging skyline grates on his consciousness. _Is this what I got promoted for? I would’ve rather stayed on Ryloth. At least I felt like I was doing something, rather than carting an ISB criminal and her pet psychopath_. He turns as the turbolift opens.

His eyes narrow as he sees the occupant of the elevator. A small Twi’lek male—blue-skinned, compact, but with solidly muscled arms. His green-gray sleeveless jumpsuit approximates an Imperial uniform. He starts towards the interloper, motioning to the fleet trooper on bridge watch. Both of them stop short as the Twi’lek pulls a code cylinder from the slot of the turbolift. Talonga’s eyes fall on the medallion hanging from his neck. An Imperial cog with a clinched fist above it. A stylized representation of the first letter of the Aurabesh rests on the fist. Talonga feels his insides turn to water

“Greeting, Captain,” the young man says. “I work for ISB _Aurek-00_.” 

Talonga’s fist clinches in an unconscious duplication of the insignia, as he realizes that he has no say now on his own ship. An Aurek indicates that something serious is wrong. The Aurek will find it. No matter who dies in the process.

“What are you here for?” he asks the asset.

“Access to your computer. I need your code cylinder.”

Talonga reaches for his left shoulder, then stops. “May I ask what this is about?” he asks, his voice icy. 

“No,” comes the answer. The _Aurek’s_ servant holds out his hand, moving closer to the naval officer. 

Talonga steps back, then stops. After a second, he pulls the cylinder from its pocket. He hands it to the Twi’lek

The asset smiles slightly as he inserts it into a small datapad. After several moments, he returns it to Talonga. He turns and walks over to a computer console; pulling a different code cylinder from the datapad. The asset inserts the code cylinder into the console. He turns to Talonga.

“Thank you Captain. I’ll be on my way and out of yours.”

The Twi’lek turns without another word and boards the turbolift. Talonga and the guard look at one another. His eyes widen as he realizes where he had seen the asset before.

Pushing a broom in the passageway of the ISB woman’s quarters. A different access pass on his clothing. 

A buzzing noise brings him up short. He realizes the noise comes from his pocket, the device vibrating insistently. He brings it out. A green light flashes as well as the vibration. 

He feels the heat rise in his face. He had acquired the device shortly after he realizes that another device had disappeared from his pocket after a visit to an exclusive casino.

This device was keyed to the code of the first—to let him know when it was in close proximity to him.

He stares at the turbolift door; opening his mouth, just as a burst of electricity arcs from his code cylinder pocket.

Everything goes dark.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ano Lessi watches as the woman that she knows as Jana Roshti stands behinds the pilots of the the corvette, her eyes closed, her arms crossed. Ano sits at a small console behind the conn, her eyes paying attention simultaneously to the woman, to both of her data monocles, and to another small screen resting on the console. 

She pauses the game on one of her monocles, focusing more of her attention on Jana. Her breathing is easy as she stands. Ano knows that even if her mind is calm in the midst of meditation, her attention is laser-focused on the voices of the pilots and the rest of the bridge crew. 

Ano would never admit this, but the woman holds her admiration. Her calm and her radiated power held a room whenever she was in it. Ano smirks. _Especially if that Corellian is in the room._ The expression softens to one more gentle. _As well as a certain Senator from Pantora. At least for this alias._

Riyo Chuchi. Ano Lessi’s guardian until she had turned seventeen. A woman who had taken her in after the death of her parents. She had shown patience and kindness, in spite of Ano’s prickly fear and silence, even though she was at most seven years older than the slicer. Ano touches the four yellow rows of diamonds that cross over her the bridge of her nose, under and over her eyes, thin filigrees of green and red alternating through the rows. She touches the bottom most row on the end. Her newest addition. A four pointed star with a similar one in the middle in her yellow. A fellow slicer and connoisseur of snark and sarcasm, whose picture sits in the upper corner of her left data monocle.

Ano starts as she sees a smile come over Fulcrum’s lips. “You’re about to get something, Ano,” she says. Lessi starts her eyeroll, just as an indicator light starts blinking on the console.

 _Witch_ , she texts.

“Yes, twit. I know. It’s the same thing you call me when I kick your ass at that hologame.”

_In your fevered dreams._

The blue eyes snap open. “Transfer it to the holotank,” Jana says. She turns to the young former CorSec officer, Sylvanus Helm, standing by the tank and motions him to her. “You have the deck and the conn, Obie,” she says formally. “Steady on course 210 by 308, by minus 36, one point off of galactic nor’ by nor’west, speed one quarter flank.”

“I have the deck and the conn,” he repeats as he moves to take her place. “Steady on course 210 by 308, by minus 36, one point off of galactic nor’ by nor’west. Speed one quarter flank.”

Fulcrum walks back to the holotank. An avatar pops up. Ano sees something rare as it does. She sees Fulcrum close her eyes in relief. Ano turns and looks at the avatar. Several large ships—old ships, dating back to the Clone Wars. Ships that she remembers seeing on the news feeds blockading her world before a young Senator and a Jedi—one even younger than the Senator, but now anonymous, had thwarted the owner of those ships and their designs.

Trade Federation Battleships. _Lucrehulk_ class. The other ships were equally dangerous. _Providence_ -class capital frigates. 

All abandoned. Floating in space, their power systems in the amber of standby on the screen.

“I count ten,” says Tamsin, who has entered the bridge.

Fulcrum doesn’t answer. Ano can see her mind is lightyears and months away. She walks over, steeling herself. Phygus had told her about what Covenant and Jana had faced, almost a year ago. When each had discovered the other was alive. She reaches out to the bare arm.

“I’m okay, Ano. Thank you.” Fulcrum says, just before their skin touches. Ano withdraws, relieved. 

“Location?” she asks the technician near the holotank.

“Not far from where Ano’s trace was running.”

Fulcrum turns and broadens her smile. “Remind me to buy you and Touchstone dinner some time.”

Ano sees movement in a monocle. She brings it into focus. She doesn’t bother texting. “Someone else is tracking these signals,” she says.

Fulcrum turns immediately to Tamsin. “We have to get there.”

Tamsin moves to the conn, begins to snap orders. 

Another indicator light flashes. Ano rushes back to the console she had vacated. 

“Jana,” she says. Fulcrum stops. Ano beckons her over.

Jana stares at the screen. She sees bright sunlight and Aurabesh script on the monitor. Her eyes narrow. “Ano,” she says darkly. “What have you done?”

She pulls her comm out, not waiting for the chime. 

_I’m pulling your boyfriend’s nuts from the wringer._

“What is this?”

_A control spike that Tempest fed into the Imperial stardestroyer’s mainframe._

“What?” Tamsin exclaims, having walked over.

“I guess I’ll have to say it slower,” Ano says. 

“Out with it, Ano. Or I’ll order the crew to tickle you endlessly,” the Captain says.

Ano stares at her for a moment, formulating her revenge. “I have control of the destroyer that he is on. The one with the Antol woman on it, but I need to stay in normal space to control it.”

She sees Jana visibly slump against the tank. She looks between the holotank and its mission and the screen and Covenant’s backup. She closes her eyes, as if in communion with someone else.

Ano waits.

+=+=+=+=+=

Tera Moj watches as the comm signals busy again. She waits for instructions from her family. Not the one that she has been loaned to, as if in disgrace. The one that she is loyal to by blood. She remembers her instructions. _Disrupt the Corellian government by any means necessary. Tacitly support Prince Xizor’s asset there, but be prepared to act as you see fit, if the chance comes to discredit him._

She closes her blue eyes as she disconnects the comm. She had not taken action against the Merricope woman. She had been blindsided by that; by the use of a Hutt substance that Black Sun had appropriated.

She thinks of the half-breed creature who had threatened her in the bar. Tera shakes the memory away. It was time to make her own move. Merricope would be too well guarded to move against.

Tera calls up a schematic on her datapad. A feral grin spreads over her face as she begins to read. _With any luck, the Zeltron will interfere. I will get to feast on her heart._

+=+=+=+=+=

Xiton Moj turns to the the flickering image of the hulking figure of the Hutt as he silences his comm. “Mighty Jabba, I thank you for the use of your asset. The use of the Huttastorm flower’s nectar was a stroke of genius. It’s something that Xizor favors.”

Jabba rumbles. The translator droid responds. “Mighty Jabba says it is his pleasure. If we are able to take revenge against the insults of the Dragon and his allies, all the better. It might give us more control over the Corellian spice smugglers and their backers.”

Moj bows and his holo fades.

Jabba turns to the figure standing near his dais. The translator droid intones, “You have the information from Tera Moj’s datapad?”

“Yes, lord Jabba,” the figure says. The figure steps into the light. A taller human female than one who she bears strong resemblance. She bears no weapons, but her muscled arms bespeak no need for them. Her teardrop shaped eyes maintain their lock on the Hutt.

“Good. Contact the Imperial ally. Give it to her. She’ll be able to use it against Moj’s sister. I’m sure that she will be glad to be free of Tera’s supposed hold on her.”

“Yes, lord,” the woman says. 

“Will your daughter take care of the Antol problem?” Jabba, through the droid asks.

Ming Lardai smiles. “Yes. She’s well trained. She also knows who owns her.”

“Contact Thittan. We are ready to do business with he and his backers. I think it might be time for a change in direction for Black Sun. Xiton Moj is a thug. They serve their purposes, but sometimes it is better to do business with a fine blade. Plus, I have a long memory. Maul and his Shadow Collective are still raw in my memory.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Jessta Verlaine walks into the press room of the Council of Graces building. She walks down to her cubicle. She notices that the cavernous room is empty. Her eyes narrow, as this is still the busy time for the press.

She is still looking around as she moves into the cubicle.

“If you’re wondering where everyone is, my dear, they’re all out about to take a statement from a member of the Council of Graces,” a warm voice says.

Jessta whirls. Breha, Queen of Alderaan, sits in her rickety office chair. A tall older man with a shaven head, dressed in a plain white undertunic, tan cargo trousers, and a black leather coat with a rank plaque on it, leans against the wall of the cubicle. 

Jessta recovers quickly. “Your Majesty,” she says, bowing her head. She recovers when Breha doesn’t respond. She looks over at the leaning man. “General M’Faru,” she says. His dark eyes continue to scrutinize her.

“My Queen,” she says. “I don’t know what you want. I can’t reveal my sources on Nola Vorserrie’s case—.”

She stops under the stare of those dark eyes. “Your fellow reporters are going to hear from her Grace, Lady Weaselton. She’s going to recount a conversation that she had with you. About illegally recording a conversation among Graces. An accusation that’s actually a felony on our world.”

“I—,” Jessta starts. She sees a tiny blonde child holding her arms up, begging to be picked up. She wonders if she’ll be able to hold the little girl through the glass of a visitor’s booth of the Central Gaol.

“I’d like to make a call,” she says quietly. “I think you’ll want to hear this as well, Majesty.

“How did you manage to get Dainet to talk?” she asks. 

“They didn’t, Jess. We decided it was time to come clean. Especially since we found the information that we did.” This comes from a new voice. Dainet Weaselton stands at the entrance of the cubicle. Flori Laken and Tika Tasera stand behind her, watching silently. 

“Your Grace—,” Jessta starts. She closes her mouth. “Did you tell them everything?”

“No, she didn’t,” Breha says. “Your colleagues are out at an announcement. The Viceroy is cutting the ribbon at a children’s hospital.” She smiles. “I would rather be there, as this is Princess Leia’s first ribbon cutting.” The smile fades. “But I owe it to someone to see this finished.”

Jessta shakes her head. “You bluffed.” 

Breha merely smiles. “Never lose at sabacc,” she says.

Dainet pulls her comm. “I think I’ll make that call. It’ll provide the evidence to at least get Nola’s name cleared of the embezzlement.”

The comm activates. A familiar visage—a face that has moved worlds for his own for over forty years.

Draq’ Bel Iblis’s piercing blue eyes stare at Breha, Jessta, and Dainet. 

“Hello, Breha. I think it’s time to make the final move.”

Jessta sneaks a glance at the Queen. 

The champion sabacc-player’s expression is one of someone who has been surprised by an Idiot’s Array.

Jessta is fairly certain that a similar hand may have appeared to her, from an opponent, at the next words from the Dragon of Corellia. He looks at Dainet Weaselton, who is looking at him with a soft expression in her dark blue eyes.

“Hello, baby sister,” he says, the expression matching hers in his normally fearsome visage.

+=+=+=+=+=

Leeza Lardai stalks into the passageway near her quarters. She ignores the naval troopers standing guard at the hatch of her cabin. She grits her teeth. _It’s a goddamned hallway, a door, and a fucking room,_ she thinks. _I’ve been around the goddamned regular navy for too long. A full month on this damned thing._

She stops as she realizes she has gone too far, passing the door to her quarters. She turns around and walks back to her door. She glares at the first naval trooper, as if daring him to smirk. She jerks her head at he and his counterpart. They move away from the door as a pair of her Deathtroopers take their place. 

She turns to the other two. “Find Commander Lardai. Bring her to me, whether she wants to come or not. I’m getting a bit tired of her going off and not reporting to me after I order her to complete a task.”

 _Even if the task is murder_ , she thinks, as the troopers leave. She feels her face flush with anger. _Especially when there’s no confirmation that she completed the task. The scavengers are efficient, just not that efficient._

She opens the door and walks in. She throws her cap on the table as the door closes. She walks to the ‘fresher, opening her tunic and kicking her boots off. She starts the shower, and walks back out into the main compartment. She tosses her tunic on the chair where the Imperial officer sits.

She whirls around. An officer in the standard gray-green field tunic sits, his single human eye gazing at her as the glowing scarlet eye on the left makes a small noise as it tracks in its metal plate.

He bears no rank plaque, only a clinched fist over cog insignia where it should be. Her eyes track back to his face, to the shaven head partially covered by the plate over the forehead. Her mind flows to a memory. A memory of Leve Stane—the former Separatist assassin that she had rebuilt to her own specifications. She shakes the memory away, starting to edge towards the discarded belt on another chair. 

“Who are you?” she asks. “Why is an _Aurek_ from the Inspector-General’s office here?” She nods towards the letter above the fist.

“Why are we ever anywhere, Leeza, darling?” the man asks. His voice is warm, with only a hint of modulation. She detects something familiar about the hint of something else. She has a memory of that voice and a green eye gazing at her, while walking.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” she says. 

“I’m sure that other members of your family might disagree. Especially since they have the nasty habit of getting dead around you.”

She smiles. “Maybe they shouldn’t have been so damned clumsy,” she replies. “Besides. The Empire and the galaxy are better off without them.”

A grin plays over the Aurek’s features. “Yes, the Empire doesn’t have a problem with murder. It just wants it done by the numbers. You haven’t exactly been doing the Emperor’s will. Just your own. You might want to think about what happened to Moff Poldar when he started killing outside the box.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I’m specifically referring to the ordered murder of a young Alderaani citizen—Meglann Florlin,” he replies. 

She smile. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. She was here. Haven’t seen her or my aide in two weeks or so.” She allows the smile to turn to a smirk. “She was quite an enjoyable diversion for my aide and I.”

Her eyes widen as she sees a tiny flicker in the green eye. The memory becomes clearer.

The flicker disappears. “I wouldn’t get any closer to the blaster, Leeza,” he says. “I took the power pack out while you were drawing your shower. I would hate to mar the chest that you are so assiduously trying to distract me with as you keep unbuttoning your shirt every minute or so.”

“It’s fortunate that you are drawing a shower. It’ll be easier to wash the blood away when you slit your wrists in remorse.” He shakes his head. “If anyone would believe you actually possess an ounce of remorse.”

“Surely you didn’t come here to talk about one of my conquests,” she says. “An Aurek is usually not bothered by sins such as lust. At least not according to the reports I’ve read.” She faces him full on. “Of course, it would help if you’re actually an ISB officer.” His eye remains expressionless. “I saw your eye when I mentioned enjoying your little friend. I remembered seeing a green eye flicker at mention of her. When I saw you looking at her a few months back. In her diner.” Her smile grows. “General Covenant.”

Her comm buzzes. A certain symbol pops up above it. She whips the shirt at him, and fires the hideout blaster. Her eyes widen as she realizes that he had never been distracted by the holocomm or her chest. 

She manages to score a hit on his left arm. Her eyes widen as she sees his finger tighten on the trigger. A bright blue ring is the last thing she sees.

Covenant winces as the taste of ashes diminishes in his mouth. He brushes the tears from his uncovered eye. The tears produced by the same taste of ashes when he had thought he was going to have to murder another ISB officer. He touches his left bicep, rolling his eyes. The gash is deep, but manageable. He allows himself a smile as he thinks of the grief from a certain huntress that he will receive. _Guess you needed a scar there, Bait,_ she would say. 

“Can’t actually remember if I’ve been hit there or not before, Runt,” he whispers to himself.

He looks up as the two Deathtroopers burst in. He manages to draw Leeza’s blaster to him and fire both weapons into their helmets.

He sees her comm flashing again. He picks it up. He touches his comm to it and hits the ‘answer’ button.

“Leeza? It’s Alderaan. I need your help. The Organas are on to me,” a male’s deep voice answers. It stops. “Leeza?” it asks again. Covenant clicks it off and places it in his pocket.

He touches his ear. “Okay Ano, time for your sorcery.”

His eyes widen as he hears nothing but an empty carrier wave deep in his ear.

+=+=+=+=+=

Tera Moj moves silently into the comfortable room, as she replaces the lockpicks in her pouch. She looks down at the sleeping child, as the dim ambient light from the outside plays over her face. She smiles as she brushes a lock of honey-colored hair from her forehead. She reaches into her pouch again and pulls the small cloth and the pair of binders out.


	16. Meglann: Mixing fresher Air.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WANTED FOR ESCAPE
> 
> Elann Gort, human female from Alderaan is wanted for escape from indentured servitude. She was serving a term of five years, with another seven years for attempted escape and insubordination added. She was last seen by her employer in the capital city several weeks ago.
> 
> She is described as standing approximately 1.7 meters, with a thin build (approx. 54 kilograms). She has pale skin, brown eyes, and dark blonde hair, cropped very short. When grown out, the hair is extremely curly. She is approximately eighteen to twenty standard years old.
> 
> If seen, please contact your local Commerce-Taker office.
> 
> SUBJECT GORT IS NOW A TERMINAL INDENTURE. ANYONE CAUGHT RENDERING AID TO HER IS LIABLE FOR TAKING UNDER THE MODIFIED INDENTURE CODES
> 
>  
> 
> _From Commerce-Taker Bulletin 276-01_

Nola Vorserrie watches the front door of the casino. She shifts her legs, trying to restart circulation in them. She feels Boba Fett’s smirk from behind his dented bucket as she tries to massage feeling into a different part, a tiny bit higher up from her legs. “Eyes front, Mister,” she says.

She hears the chuckle from the voicebox. She turns and grins at him. She moves the rancor on the dejarik field on his datapad, a device that he apparently always has on him. She watches him concentrate on countering her move. She smiles as she reads an article on her own datapad. An article on an area controlled by the Conlyns in Wild Space. A place avoided because of navigational anomalies. A place where anything could be hidden, as long as sentients didn’t have to stay there for long with whatever was hidden. Or at least that’s what the legends say. 

Her grin fades as she sees him make a move. A move that clears her field. She brings a soft smile to her face as she thinks of his layers. 

The smile fades and her eyes darken as she thinks of another ten-day spent watching the door, after an unsuccessful attempt to gain an idea of who was administering the casino while the former owner was off cataloguing what brains remained in his skull after Xizor’s blaster bolt had opened it.

 _Come back tomorrow_ , had been the answer, given in a Hutt trade language. _Miss Sera not here. She the one in charge while Mr. Gordo away._

Both she and Boba had been ready to charge in and open a few doors with blaster bolts, at least at different times. His patience had lasted longer than hers, but both were ready.

Both Sloane Conlyn and Riyo Chuchi had cautioned against that particular tactic.

“We’re at a delicate point, No-no,” Riyo had said after they had spent a good minute holding each other tightly. Watching a friend soak in bacta for three weeks, not knowing whether it will do any good, did build a type of bond. “We should be able to get Meglann’s sentence voided, as long as we can prove that she was taken on another world, not on Ganthel,” she had finished.

Sloane, who had watched them greet each other with amusement, had nodded in agreement. “Riyo is right. We have to find that former Captain you spoke of. He and his logs will prove that she was on Raxus, if they haven’t been altered by the management.”

“I have someone from XTS looking into it,” she had said. 

“How much longer, Boba?” she asks, coming back to the present. “How much longer should we wait?”

She sees him turn towards her. “I don’t know—,” he starts. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola shoves him backward. She manages to fall on top of him, her blaster drawn. The sound of a blaster bolt cuts the air. Boba struggles to turn his head. His HUD tracks the figure of a human male, a smoking blaster pistol. He raises his EE-3 carbine and fires three times in quick succession. He hears a yelp, just as the human turns to run, clutching his side. 

Boba starts to get up to pursue when he realizes that there is a weight on his legs. He looks down. He yanks his _buy’ce_ off, as he sees Nola lying on her stomach, not moving. He can smell the blaster ozone of a strike. He manages to pull his legs out and lifts her to roll her to her back. 

He sees the smoking hole in the zipped up jacket that she wears, dead center. He sits down hard, staring at her.

~=~=~=~=~=

Senator Sloane Conlyn looks at Riyo Chuchi as they walk towards Imperial House. “So, about the Joshta,” she says, trying to disguise her hope. 

Riyo is silent for a moment as she thinks about the proposal—first put forward by the young woman without a world. “I think that the idea has merit. We have since replaced our weather control stations so that they don’t need the mineral. It isn’t anything that we have to impact our environment with, as the stuff seems to be lying around. We have learned to refine on some asteroids in the system, so that the process doesn’t impact much either. It is a bit costly, though, to get it to those refineries.”

The Senator from Ganthel smiles. “We don’t need it refined. We developed a cleaner refining process several years ago.”

Riyo nods. “I think we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement. I think Nola came up with a good idea to offer your orthodox and conservative factions; to convince them to give up their indentured servants.”

“What can you tell me about her?” she asks, trying to put as much nonchalance in her question as possible.

Riyo grins. “She’s a good problem solver when she thinks about things. It may be the personal relationships she has problems with. She cares a great deal; just don’t know if she’s emotionally mature enough to express it in the right way,” Riyo says. 

Sloane looks down as they turn onto the street containing most of the Imperial Complex. “Is she seeing anyone?” she asks, in a whisper. 

Riyo’s grin widens. “Not exclusively. She has some people she is close with, but that’s another part of what she has a problem with. Fear of losing people makes her do and say some stupid-ass things.”

“Are you trying to scare me off?” Sloane asks, her eyes narrowing.

“Not at all. Just letting you know the pitfalls before you jump. Like I said, she cares a great deal about those she loves. You may just have to get through a good deal of poodoo.”

Sloane shoves her arm against Riyo’s. “Have you dealt with the poodoo?”

Riyo rolls her eyes. “Not with her. We both seem to care about a mutual acquaintance a great deal. I’ve watched Nola suffer a lot over this friend.”

Sloane nods as they walk into the Center. They fall silent in this place. 

Both Senators are soon staring at the Imperial functionary sitting at the desk of the Conyl’s wing of the Complex. Sloane had made this trip every day for the past five years—every day she had been on the planet and not on Coruscant. “Let me get this straight, Lieutenant Grammel. You will not allow me as the Senator of this world to see the Head of State of this world? My own father?”

The Imperial appears bored in his response. “As I have told you every other time, Senator,” he says, looking at his nails, his mustaches twitching, “I have not been given permission by the Advisor, Colonel Lardai, to allow anyone to see the Conyl. His health is fragile, and the Colonel wanted to safeguard it as much as possible. Is there anyway that I can help?”

“Yes,” she says coldly. “You can take me to my father.”

“I can’t do that, Senator,” he says. “I—,”

“Don’t have the authorization,” she says. “How about a Senatorial order, countersigned by Grand Moff Tarkin, granting me the emergency powers of the Conyl?” Sloane says, slapping a datapad on the desk.

Sloane ignores Riyo Chuchi’s amazed expression. The Lieutenant’s expression becomes less bored. He rises, stammering, then exiting through the back of the office.

“What?” Sloane says innocently.

“Okay. How did you get that?”

“Bribed one of Tarkin’s pet Senators to bring it before him. Besides,” she says, “he seems to be interested in anything that Lardai has been up to.”

“So what did you bribe him with?”

“Clear forensic evidence of the Senator skimming funds from Moff Tarkin’s discretionary account.”

“Sloane, that’s not bribery. That’s extortion,” Riyo exclaims.

“Oh? My mistake,” Sloane says innocently. 

Lieutenant Grammel returns, his face ashen. “My lady, the Conyl is not on world, right now.”

“Oh, really, Lieutenant?” Sloane asks, her calm manner belying the anger building.

“Colonel Lardai took the Conyl with her, a while back.”

Sloane turns to her silent Guardian. “Guardian, inform the Council. I am invoking the Regency. My father has been out of contact for five years, and the Lieutenant has just told me he is off world. The two criteria for the Regency, that I, as Conyl-ach so move.”

“Yes, my Lady Regent,” Behntu says. 

Sloane looks at Riyo. “Come on, Senator. As your client’s advocate, you can petition me for relief against an illegal Commerce-Taking.” She turns to leave. Her comm beeps with a text. 

Sloane’s eyes widen. She feels cold fear as she turns to Riyo. “Come on. There’s been an incident at the Casino. With casualties.”

They both turn and exit, leaving the dumbfounded Imperial officer staring after them.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann wakes up, shifting her body on the small bunk—a bunk with no mattress, just as her cell had no windows and no darkness. She runs her hands over her face, trying to push the fatigue out of her mind. The incessant lighting of the cell had only allowed fitful sleep over however many days she had been here.

She looks down at herself. She still wears the same clothing—which is to say, a borrowed bathing suit—that she had worn on the beach when Lardai and the hard-eyed male officer had taken her to yet another shuttle, up to the stardestroyer that had been opposite Antol’s for only a few days. Once on board, she had been taken to a cell block and thrown in. A platter of food and water once a day had been her sustenance.

There had been no contact with anyone in that time. Even the food slot had been automated. 

She hears the mechanical noise precipitating the food slot activation. Her eyes narrow as she rises from the bunk. As near as she can tell, with her lack of a reference point, it is too early. She gets up just as the door snaps open. Faceless stormtroopers step in. “Come with us,” emits from the vocoder. She folds her arms, looking at the soldier, digging her bare feet in as best as she can.

The lead trooper points his blaster at her. “We can drag you. It makes no difference to me.”

After a moment, she nods and walks past them into the corridor. An officer in uniform, a female, points her into another room. Meglann’s eyes widen at the small shower cubicle. 

She removes her suit as the officer closes the door behind her. 

Fifteen minutes later, the officer coughs politely. Meglann steps out from the deluge as warm air plays over her, drying her. The officer motions her over. She hands Meglann a high-collared white undertunic, a pair of greenish-gray trousers, and sandals.

She is led to another door, then into an elevator, escorted only by the uniformed female and one stormtrooper. As they step into the lift, she stumbles. The trooper instinctively grabs her. She steadies herself, her arm around his waist. The officer shakes her head and pulls her along.

As the elevator deposits her on an ornate deck, she sees more of the dark-armored, faceless soldiers standing at various points. More than the Antol woman had possessed.

The officer knocks discreetly on a wood-paneled door, then opens it. She again motions Meglann forward.

Meglann enters, her eyes adjusting to the light. Her heart sinks as she sees Cantos Lardai and the hard-eyed male officer sitting at a table, watching her expectantly.

“Come on in, my dear. Into the light. Let me look at you.” This from a different voice. An older voice.

She hears a mechanical whir. An older man with tanned skin and thinning blonde-gray hair moves over into the light in a hoverchair. His gray eyes look her up and down. She looks away, her discomfort palpable. A discomfort that she can’t explain.

She looks closely at the old man’s face. She can see the healing scars dotting his craggy face. Even in the hoverchair, even with vestiges of pain on his face and body, she can see the latent power in his thick body. 

Meglann nods. “I think that I know you,” she says quietly. “I’ve seen you before. In a holo with my mother.”

The old man smiles. “I knew your mother. You’re the spitting image of her.”

“My name is Jano Secor. I think that I might be your father.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Covenant runs down the passageway. His ISB getup ensures that most everyone gets out of his way. He only hope Fit follows the plan and gets to the shuttle. Or can remember how to get to the shuttle. 

_I hope I can. These damned behemoths are a little bit different than_ Venators, he thinks.

He holds his ear again. “Come on Ano. You better not be staring dreamily at that holo of Touchstone.”

“Calm yourself, bud,” comes a different voice. “She sent the varsity in. She’s tied up.”

“Only in your dreams little man,” Covenant says. “You ready?”

“Yep. We’re coming in. Masked ID and all.”

“Tell Murta he better not dent the paint work on Dani’s baby,” Covenant says.

“We masked the paintjob, too. Nice tech, these holoskins. Pity we can’t use one for your face. Oh, wait. You did. Or at least something that helped.”

“Phygus—,” he says darkly. 

“Okay, okay, geez. You got no sense of humor. Initiating sequence.”

He hears a pause as Phygus works. “By the way, this little bastard that Draq’ foisted on us is annoying as hell. He and his geriatric sidekick,” Phygus says.

“Might want to watch it little man. Got a few centimeters on you,” comes a dry voice. “We are ready, Tempest,” Thittan says.

Covenant nearly slides into Fit, who watches him with amusement. “Come on, Fit. Got to get over to the _‘Raptor_ before the fireworks start.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Phygus turns to Thittan. “We are ready, shorter-and-uglier-than-I.”

“Height is not the only size that matters, Jawa,” the Falleen says with a smile on his slightly reptilian features. 

“If you two little shits suddenly whip’em out and measure, I am spacing both of your teensy asses,” Boge M’Faru says as he sits at the weapons console in its alcove. 

“The oversized and overfed one is touchy, Brother Thittan,” Phygus says. Thittan raises his eyebrow at the appellation, but smiles.

“Exceedingly, Brother Phygus,” comes the reply. 

Phygus looks at the pilot and co-pilot. “You boys ready?”

“Yes, wee man,” says Murta Locke in the pilot’s seat. He looks over at the newcomer.

Chi Herne nods. Phygus sees him take a breath and look out at the stars, then the blue with something like love on his wrinkled blue face.

He turns to Boge. “Slaving ImpStar weapons to you in 3, 2, 1.”

“Tempest signals clear and almost on board the other ship,” Thittan says.

“Showtime, kids,” Phygus says. “Sounding General Quarters on the ImpStar.”

They turn towards the viewport, their thoughts varied as they watch the blue water rushing towards them.

+=+=+=+=+=

The XO looks up from assisting the comatose Captain Talonga as a familiar horn starts sounding. “Who the hell sounded GQ?” he asks the bosun’s mate of the watch.

The woman stares back at him. “The mainframe is setting us at Condition 1. I don’t know what caused it, sir. It’s not me.”

“Sir, weapons are being manned and loaded. Shields are being raised.”

“XO, the engines have started. Maneuvering thrusters online.”

“What the hell is doing all of this?” somebody yells.

“Sir, targeting computers are up. Centralized control,” a gunnery officer says. “We’re targeting the _Velociraptor!”_

“Shut everything down!” the XO yells.

“We can’t!”

The XO’s blood runs cold.

+=+=+=+=+=

Boba Fett looks down at Nola Vorserrie. He can only detect shallow breathing. His hands move over her chest, attempting to open the coat. Something is keeping it held shut. 

He curses. _You better wake up_ , Vorserrie, he thinks. “Come on girl. You’re about to cost me half a million.”

His eyes widen as he sees a slight smile on her sharp features. “So I guess that is all that I mean to you, huh?”

He rolls his eyes, but breathes out. He grins. “You know it,” he says.

Boba sees her trying to move up. She gasps in pain. He reaches around her and brings her up. He can feel her trembling. 

Nola reaches up and opens her jacket. His eyes narrow at the expanse of dark green with gold highlights covering her chest. Two differently colored handprints on opposite sides. A small dent in the middle.

He shakes his head as he recognizes the _beskar’gam_. Last seen on the half-breed that had invited him to this party.

“So when did King let you borrow his armor?”

“He didn’t. It was just laying there.”

“I am surprised there was room in there. For your—.” He actually feels the heat on his face as he points at her chest.

“There’s plenty of room, They aren’t even chafing.” she says. “It _is_ Covenant’s armor.”

He grins. “Yeah. Of course, he probably calls them ‘pecs’.” They both laugh, at least for an instant before Nola cries out. 

She moves up, swinging over to her hands and knees. After a moment, he places his arms around her shoulders. She shakes him off, giving a sharp cry again.

“Nola,” Boba says, “You took a direct hit. Even with the armor, it could’ve stopped your heart. As it is, you probably got broken ribs.”

She says nothing, but relaxes. He lifts her to her feet. 

Boba starts to say something, pauses, then jumps in. “Besides,” he says with a straight face, “maybe that Senator who keeps making goo-goo eyes at you will kiss’em and make’em better.”

He feels her grin against his neck, just before he slides his bucket over his head. He pulls her into his arms and triggers his jetpack.

+=+=+=+=+=

Mal Adede watches as Lardai gets up and leaves. He wishes that he could. He stares at the young woman sitting across from him as his father moves to the table. 

Secor pulls out a small blood analyzer and places it on the table in front of him, not bothering to move it towards Meglann. “I took the liberty. Our information is already in it.”

Meglann’s eyes narrow, for an instant, then return to their unreadable look. Adede smiles. _Could be the old bastard’s blood_ , he thinks. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Fit walks onto the bridge of the second stardestroyer. He feels a twinge at the base of his spine. “Really hope your friends don’t hit this part first,” he whispers, as if to the air. 

“Quit your worryin’,” the dry voice says in his ear. “They know what they are doing,” Covenant finishes. 

Fit isn’t reassured by the added whisper in his ear. “I hope.”

The Captain of the _Velociraptor_ , as Bryne had called the big ship, stares at Fit like he is some species of bug as his eyes fall on him. Fitanzujua’taro pushes the last vestiges of worry from his face. He raises his finger and points towards the token around his neck.

The Captain’s eyes roll. “Just what I need,” he sneers “A tailhead with a—.”

Fit holds his hand up, allowing his eyes to grow hard. Just like _Isard of the Judicials._

“Save it, Captain,” he says. I don’t have time for your Imperial bigotry.” He points to the token again. “Give me your code cylinder.”

As he takes it from the officer, Fit tries to push the fear away from the pits of his stomachs, just as he has pushed it from his face.

He sees the Captain start, turning towards the row of triangular ports. Fit’s eyes follow the Captain. 

The other stardestroyer is turning bow on to them and pulling closer.

Fit smiles and turns to the turbolift.

+=+=+=+=+=

Breha watches as Dalist Florlin-Helt gathers himself after recounting his story. She nods at Flori, who walks over with two glasses of brandy. Breha grins at the young Zeltron; of the preternatural gift of knowing just what they needed when they needed it. Her grin softens at the Handmaiden’s warmth; her smile and touch of Dalist’s hand.

“So let me get this straight. You were threatened by Antol even before Meglann left?”

He nods. “Yes, your Majesty. I never told Meglann, but I think that she suspected.” He takes a sip of his brandy. “I didn’t tell Flori because I wasn’t sure I wanted to put any more problems on you and Senator Organa. No more Imperial entanglements,” he says. He looks at Flori with an apologetic look on his open face.

Flori shakes her head and touches him on his bearded cheek. “It’s no matter, Mr. Florlin. You’re a good man. You have other people’s best interests at heart.”

He covers her hand with his. 

Breha is thoughtful as she watches the byplay. “A couple of weeks or so before Bryne took over as _Mishleh_ ,” she says to Flori. 

Flori nods. “Apparently the thugs had already started harassing Meglann and the diner for about a couple of months.”

“Did she say anything to either of you?”

“No,” Flori says. “Stubborn twit.”

Dalist shakes his head in the negative. 

“How did you know about Covenant?” Breha asks.

He looks away. 

Breha narrows her eyes at him, but waits patiently. 

Dalist takes a deep breath. “I had about a one week affair with a Peacekeeper,” he says.

Breha’s look softens at his expression. 

“Not exactly my finest hour. He turned out to be a true piece of—,” he starts. He stops himself.

“I’ve heard the word before. Used it myself, in certain situations,” the Queen says. 

“I think he was disgruntled. He had been punished for something, shifted to guarding the University library. He had lost his Inspector rank. I think he was just a glorified door guard.”

Breha’s mind flows back to weeks before. A conversation at the Square, the headquarters building of Peace and Planetary Security. A four-way argument between Nels Somar, the soon-to-be-former Peacekeeper-General, Nola, Bail, and her. As she leaves, she notices Bail and Nola staring at a slovenly, unshaven uniformed Peacekeeper outside the door. 

Both of their eyes grow thunderous with recognition, just as the PK beats a hasty retreat.

The Peacekeeper had looked furtive as her eyes had locked on his. Guilty. 

Neither Bail nor her Hand had been forthcoming when she had asked the question.

She smiles to herself. _You were well shot of him, my lad_ , she thinks in Dalist’s direction.

Queen Breha comes back to the present. She sees Meglann’s uncle looking forlorn, his eyes on the past. She takes his hand in hers. “Dalist,” she says. 

He looks up. 

“You did nothing wrong. There are people looking for your child, people I trust implicitly.” His eyes widen at her choice of words. She grins. “Including that Corellian your ‘mistake’ blabbed about. He has his faults, but giving up when something right is put before him isn’t one of them.”

Flori reaches over and brushes the tears from his eyes. “I wish that I’d told her everything. I was so afraid that I would lose her, just like the others. Now I’ve pushed her away,” he says. 

Breha shakes her head. “I haven’t been a parent as long as you have, Dalist,” she says. “But I know that Meglann will someday see how much you loved her. We all think that we know better than those who care for us.”

She stands, as does Dalist. She pulls him into her arms. They are all three silent as she holds him.

_Parent to parent._

+=+=+=+=+=

Bryne Covenant stares up at the towering column of plastic, durasteel, and flashing lights. _Okay, Runt. I think I might actually pull this off. I might find something to take that wrinkle from between your eyebrow markings. The one that I haven’t been able to kiss away_ , he thinks with a soft smile to himself. 

His datapad blinks. He pulls yet another metal cylinder from his pocket, inserting it in the datapad. It only takes a brief moment for the green light to blink. He pulls it from the ‘pad. “Good job, Fit,” he whispers.

He inserts the cylinder into the slot. Covenant holds his breath as he waits to see if the cloning had taken. 

“Come on. Hurry up,” he whispers to the device. He closes his eyes for a moment, reaching out to the Force, allowing calm to flow over him. As he does, a bright orange and blue light suffuses him with warmth.

 _Patience, old man_ , the voice says in his mind. . 

As he always does, one part of his brain questions his stability. _Is it really her? Is she in my mind? Is it my conscience? Or am I just fucking insane?_

He hears a giggle in his mind. The high clear voice warms him again. _All of the above, Bait  
_ , the voice says. 

_Thanks, Runt_ , he sends to the light. _I can always count on you to bust my bubble._

His mind feels a softening of the voice. _It’s what I live for,_ ie, the maybe-Ahsoka says.

A whirring noise cuts into his thoughts. He looks down at his datapad. “Hey Touchstone,” he says to the air. “Lot of data here. Found the Kuat stuff. Way too much for the datapad.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tempest. Our mainframe is searching for the keywords.”

Covenant feels a tingling at the base of his skull. A banging sounds on the door behind him. 

“Hurry up,” he says. “Pedal faster.”

“Almost there, bud. Calm your jets. Think of Fulcrum’s ass. It’s what I do,” comes the voice in his ear.

“How about a little distraction that doesn’t involve me chucking your ass out of an airlock,” Covenant says darkly.

“Everybody seems to want to do that lately. Working on it. Too busy dealing with your bullshit.”

“Thought you could multitask,” Covenant retorts. 

He feels a tiny bit of a jolt. The banging on the door stops. 

“Hold on, Tempest. Storm’s coming,” Phygus says. 

+=+=+=+=+=

“My dear, I’m glad that I was able to find you. You remind me so much of your mother. You’re just as beautiful as she was,” Secor says. His eyes soften into an expression of wonder.

Idly, Meglann wonders if this is as much softness as the gray windows are capable of producing. She begins to feel a sense of foreboding. A sense that her pain—the pain of the loss of her previous life, the pain of being held against her will, the pain of feeling like she was standing by watching the deaths of her friends and loved ones occur in their struggles—was only beginning. 

She starts as she realizes that _Secor_ —she can’t quite bring herself to call him her father yet—is staring at her. She brings a look of attentiveness back to her face. 

“I think that family is very important. It’s important that you know what your place is in the universe. That we know what our legacies and our histories are.”

_Really, I thought that family might be important for the warmth and comfort that they provide._

“What do you mean?” she asks. She steels herself and returns his stare.

He smiles. “It means, dear Meglann, that I think that I have found someone worthy to carry on my legacy. To rule what I’ve built over the past forty years.”

Meglann senses growing anger from the young man sitting across from her. She takes a deep breath. “What have you built?” she asks.

“I’ve built my own empire, my dear. An empire built on contacts I’ve made over the course of the Clone Wars and the establishment of the Empire. I built it with my own brainpower, and skills in recognizing opportunity. Opportunity to use anyone that I could to build that empire. No matter if they were personally repugnant to me, or if they were part of ‘the enemy’, as someone labeled them. It means that I used anything or anyone that I could. So that I could build something for the future. Something that someone else could build on.”

She feels her eyes flash with anger. “So basically you have no loyalty to anything or anyone? Such as the oath that you took as a Republic officer?” She sees his jaw clinch in anger.

“What would you know of that, my dear?”

“I found some things of my mother’s. Her commission as a Republic officer—both as a Judicial and in the navy. She had written out, in her own hand, the oath that she had taken before the flag.” Meglann feels her eyes tear as she remembers. “I also found a letter she had written when she transferred to the fighters. A letter to her father and mother. It spoke of how proud she was when she realized that she had found her place in the universe.”

He smiles. “She was proud. She was proud that she had overcome her beginnings. The failures of her parents.”

Meglann feels herself relax. She allows a smile to grow over her face. His eyes narrow at her. “What?”

“I think I may have just realized something.” Meglann feels a pressure fall away from her heart. A pressure that had appeared since Secor had introduced himself. “You are so wrong. She didn’t feel like her upbringing hindered her. She was thanking her parents for their hard work to help get her where she was, even though she was from a family and a village where people didn’t go out among the stars. She knew what they had sacrificed for her; she knew what they had given up, just so she could have her dreams.” She looks away from him, at the expanse of bright sun outside the port. “She also thanked them for giving her the hope and the strength to fight for everything she had earned.”

Secor’s smile matches hers for a moment. Her certainty falters. “Yes. She was tough as nails. I think that you are as well. It’s why I tested you,” he says.

She stands up. “What the hell are you talking about?” she asks.

“Just what I said. Do you think that someone like Dait Gordo—a born servant—could engineer something like this? The precise moment required for you to intervene with that runaway servant? I only let him think it was coincidence.” 

The door opens. A young officer walks in. Meglann’s eyes widen. She had seen him before—a skinny, bedraggled figure running away as she lay on the ground on Raxus, her consciousness fading.

He smirks at her as he hands Secor a datapad. 

“Thank you, Ensign,” the Moff says. He watches the officer leave. 

Mal Adede stands, his hands shaking. “You lied to me. You acted surprised when I told you about her being taken.”

“It was a test for you, as well. To see if you were a loyal servant.”

“What the hell do you mean, you sonofabitch?” the young officer yells. “A servant? I’m your blood—,” he starts.

“Just what I said,” the older man says quietly. “Did you actually think that you were my son? You? A failure at everything that I sent you to do?” His smile takes on a death’s head quality. “Guess it proves how malleable you can be. You’re nothing. I plucked you out of the gutter when your family abandoned you. I gave you hope when I told you that you were my nephew. Do you honestly believe I could actually stomach the fact that our blood had been diluted by an Antol? The sworn enemies of Clan Malika?”

Meglann holds her breath as she waits for Adede to respond. As she does, her mind flies back to the young woman that she remembered from her childhood. Her kindness. The sadness in her eyes that was sometimes present—competing with the light and happiness that her mother had always shown her.

She tries to find any aspect of this angry, vitriolic old man, the polished exterior hiding anger and hatred, in herself. Her heart clinches. She wonders if this is what others sometimes see in her. If Ahsoka just tolerates the anger—if Covenant and the others discount it in her personality.

“What about the other man in the holo? The one standing on the other side of her?” she asks.

“Dao? Another mediocrity. A good pilot, but no imagination. I don’t know why your mother looked at him with such admiration. He was not good enough for her.”

She closes her eyes. She reaches into her pocket. Her mind’s eye travels back over the months. She sees another set of gray-blue eyes—on a much smaller figure’s face. Eyes filled with snark, but strangely respectful of her and of others, underneath the snark and innuendo. She remembers his words. 

_All you need to do is stumble, or brush against somebody. You just need a diversion when you lift something._

Her hand closes on the object. An object that another recent teacher, a young Zeltron refugee, now a Handmaiden undergoing less— _peaceful_ training from her new partner, had shown her—at least an inert version, when recounting that training. She smiles to herself when she remembered Flori’s excitement at new skills.

_You have to make sure that you open your mouth when it goes off anywhere around you. Lessens the concussion._

She makes her choice. Meglann stands up. “I think that I’m done here. I don’t care if you’re my father or not. I don’t want to be a part of this anger and hatred that seems to consume you. Your need to manipulate everything.” She starts to turn away. She sees the other officer, Adede, smile at her. 

“Sit down, my dear,” Secor says. “Where do you think you would go? Even if you could get off an Imperial naval vessel, you wouldn’t get far. This world is no longer on any maps of the galaxy. Without my protection, you would be a slave, or worse, executed as an intruder.”

She smiles. “I’ll fall off of that bridge when I come to it, ‘Dad’,” she says, her voice dry as ashes. “Oh, by the way. I may not know who my blood father is, but I know who I would choose as my father. His name is Dalist Florlin-Helt. The one that somebody tried to intimidate, even before I was assaulted by the Antols. Just because you had already stuck your nose into our lives. It’s another reason I left Alderaan. To spare him.”

She flicks the end of the cylinder open and punches the button exposed with her thumb. She remembers Flori’s impromptu demonstration on an inert version. _Count three, then throw._

She tosses the device next to Secor, between he and Adede. She turns, takes three steps, falls to the deck, and yanks one of the heavily padded chairs from around the caf table over herself. She opens her mouth wide as she covers her ears.

Meglann pulls herself up into a tight ball as she feels time stop. Light and noise fill her senses. Someone seems to be ringing the universe’s largest bell in her ears. She feels the deck shift under her, then through the gonging, she senses an intense rumbling and vibration through her entire body.

_Did I do that?_


	17. Resituated in the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _By the fifth year of the Empire, Fulcrum and her superiors had begun to branch out in acquisition of ships, not just the acquisition of cells. Indeed, Bail Organa had begun to slow the creation of actual formal cells, based on the experiences on Stornan. Besides planets with secret leaders, there were truly only a handful of underground cells, mostly providing intelligence and information. This would change somewhat with the addition of a direct-action cell that would go where Fulcrum and others would need, as well as work in the Core systems, where Fulcrum could not always safely go._
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> Excerpt from Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest, Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic_

Tera places her hands over the little girl’s mouth. She sees the girl’s eyes pop open as the struggle begins. Tera grabs her hands as they flail against her.

The girl lifts her feet and begins to kick against Tera’s body. She feels her anger grow with each blow. She drops the girl’s hands and draws hers back.

Pain lights up her being, centered in the rear of her leg. She whirls around, yanking the small blade out of the hand of another child—a blade now sticking out of her thigh. The young girl, a little larger and older than her target, stands there, her fists clinched. Tera’s ears are split by a loud scream from the girl in the bed

She hears the pounding of feet in the near distance of her senses. She reaches down to pull her own blade. As she does, the lights snap on. She gets a brief glimpse at her target’s defender. A pair of sharp eyes—one amber and one dark blue, fix in her vision.

Just before a crimson blur collides with her body and knocks her over the bed.

The next sensation she has is of shouting voices, curses, and two pairs of smaller hands joining the larger ones in pounding on her torso and head.

+=+=+=+=+=

Ahsoka listens to the hum of conversation and memory as she stands behind the Captain’s chair. She can feel the eddies and flows of hyperspace around the _Jamestyn’s Hope_. Her mind fixates on the sender of the information—information that had come from a certain Corellian, via a tiny slicer, through another taller, but equally socially inept slicer.

A certain Corellian who even now causes another furrow to appear between her eyebrow markings. One that he just might be able to kiss away.

If he was only here. She hears a slight _ahem_ , from the chair in front of her. She opens her eyes slowly. Tamsin has turned her chair around from watching the pilots. Her dark gaze is fixed on Ahsoka.

“What?” Ahsoka asks. 

A slight smile quirks one side of her lips. She reaches up and touches a newly colored strand of her hair. “Oh, nothing,” the Captain says.

Ahsoka rolls her eyes. “Out with it, Tamsin. What’s on your alleged mind?”

Tamsin stands up, causing Ahsoka to take a step back to allow her out of the chair. Tamsin puts her hand on Ahsoka’s elbow and turns her towards the rear of the bridge. 

The idea of shoving Tamsin back into her seat crosses her mind, but for an instant. She watches as the crew around the holotank suddenly find something to do, elsewhere.

“What the hell has you all twisted in knots?” Tamsin asks.

Ahsoka knows that her eyes flash fire. “What business is it of yours, Captain?” she asks, ice forming on the last word.

“You’re supposedly in command of this little shindig. The Dragon told me to do what you told me to do. So I think that I’ve a right to know if it’s your time of the month or something.”

After a moment of staring at each other, Ahsoka looks away. 

“Is is Covenant?” Tamsin asks. “Are you worried about him? I thought you wizard types didn’t get worried about others. About _attaching_.

“Guess you don’t know many,” Ahsoka says. “No, I’m not worried about him. We both know what the other can do.”

Ahsoka hopes that her eyes betray nothing. A glance at Tamsin tells her that they might have. 

She sighs. “Look, you’ve a right to know some things, Tamsin. But others are just for me. I am only concerned about whether we can pull off getting these heavies corralled.” She looks away. “There’s been some blood paid for them,” she says quietly.

Tamsin nods. “Let me guess. A certain gray-haired wanker of a Corellian, with a half-way decent ass.”

Ahsoka says nothing. Tamsin touches her hand. “Maybe some from a certain major pain-in-my- _shebs_ super-secret twit who is very skilled at washing color out of my hair.” A mischievous smile flows to her features. “Wherever she finds it,” she finishes.

Ahsoka feels her face flush as Obie Helm chooses that moment to walk up. He closes his mouth and flushes scarlet at the last statement, his overlarge ears bearing the brunt of the burning.

Two of them are saved from further temperature rises by a blinking light and soft chime. The other is saved from dismemberment.

The three of them hurry to the pilot’s seats as the co-pilot pulls back on the hyperdrive levers.

“Shields,” Tamsin says tersely.

The stars calm from chaos.

The corvette slows as the ten shapes grow in the port. “Ano, start working your magic,” Fulcrum says. 

A chime on her comm tells her that the slicer already is. Either that or Ano is discussing her mother’s mating habits with Rancors.

“Shit,” Tamsin yells, pointing.

Ahsoka echoes her word a second later as she sees the lead ships begin to jump away. “Ano, stand on it. Somebody’s yanking them.”

Ahsoka turns to the fire control station. “Hit them hard. I don’t want them to—,” she starts. 

She watches helplessly as four more jump away.

“Got them, Jana,” she hears in a rarely heard Pantoran accent. 

“Any idea on a track for the others?” she asks after a moment. 

“No. I was concentrating on grabbing the ones that I could.”

Ahsoka nods, slumping against the chair. She shakes off Tamsin’s hand.

Ano walks up to her. “Got these five working on their final destination. The collectors will be there to pick them up.”

Ahsoka’s comm dings. She smiles briefly. “Don’t worry, Ano. You did good. Five was more than we had hoped.”

She turns away and looks outside the port, lost in her thoughts.

+=+=+=+=+=

The _Velociraptor’s_ Captain turns as an officer hails him from the workpit. “Captain, we have a small explosion in the flag quarters. The day cabin.” He gives a quizzical look. “Very small. Maybe a stun grenade?”

The Captain curses. “Not again,” he says, his teeth clinching. 

He turns back to the Twi’lek. His eyes widen as he realizes that he is nowhere on the bridge. A flash penetrates the edge of his vision.

He starts to yell as he realizes that the flash is a bright emerald green series of bolts floating almost lazily from the other stardestroyer.

His world explodes around him. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Bryne feels the ship shudder and heel over, as explosions rock the massive vessel. The artificial gravity shifts and fades, coming back on just as he starts to float, slamming him to the deck. He picks himself up as he hears Fit’s voice just ahead through the fog of his brain.

He runs towards the sound. He bowls forward as he sees the young man struggling with an freshfaced, skinny Imperial ensign. He grins as he realizes that neither one of them seems to be adept at fighting.

Fit, at least, is keeping the reedy Imperial from drawing his blaster. Covenant shakes the remaining cobwebs from his brain and closes on the pair.

A punch in the face and the Imperial collapses in on himself. Covenant curses as he realizes that he had struck the Imperial’s nose with his left hand, with its only recently re-attached ring finger.

Fit watches him curiously, as he surely learns a few words that you cannot say on family holodramas. 

“Come on, Fit,” he says. “You got the code cylinder?”

Fit smiles and holds it up. 

Bryne touches his cheek. “You’ve done well. Meglann will be proud when we find her.”

A bolt of laserfire flies over their head. He sees two fleet troopers and an officer, a lieutenant, open fire on them. A lieutenant that is vaguely familiar, not just from standing over Meglann on a bright beach. The lieutenant turns and runs, before Covenant can attempt to return fire. He closes his eyes, not worrying about the consequences. He thrusts his hands out. The two troopers fly back, smashing into the bulkhead.

He opens his eyes, sees Fit staring at him, wide-eyed. “That artificial gravity is really undependable,” he says, avoiding Fit’s eyes. He shakes his head as he feels the connection in his mind shrinking again.

“Come on,” he says. “We may have to do some fighting.” He picks up the swabbie’s blaster from the deck where it has fallen and hands it to Fit. “Here. Point this end toward who you’re shooting at. Pull the trigger. Try not to shoot me in the ass,” he says.

“It might be hard to distinguish, since according to Meg-lann, you are all ass.”

“Must be my month for smartasses,” Covenant grumbles, as they turn towards the flag quarters.

The ship continues to shudder. Covenant recognizes the sound of the turbolasers beginning to return fire.

+=+=+=+=+=

Leeza Lardai, the last survivor of the Antols—wanderers and vagabonds, feels herself come awake slowly to a high pitched noise. She screams and sits up as a grim mask stares down at her. She remembers the childhood stories of the boojium, the horrible creature on Naboo that steals naughty children away.

She looks around. Two Deathtroopers—the exact number she was allotted and who aren’t apparently missing, lie still on the floor, their chests and heads punctured and smoking. 

Leeza looks into the Deathtrooper staring down at her. She realizes that the ship is shuddering. She can hear distant explosions at the edge of her hearing.

The trooper moves his hand and grasps her arm, yanking her to her feet. He throws her shirt at her.

“The Moff has ordered us to take you to the surface. He will meet us there.”

“What for?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

“For your execution on the beach,” he says tonelessly.

Her blood runs cold. “I’m an Imperial officer. I demand a—,”

“Save it, Colonel. We both know you are going to die while trying to escape.”

The trooper turns to a stormtrooper who has walked up. “The shields are up. We’ll take an escape pod down to the surface,” he says to the other trooper. “I am leading the others to the bridge to take control of this ship. You’ll take care of the sentence.”

The trooper nods. 

A grip of iron drags her towards the door.

+=+=+=+=+=

Mal Adede runs towards the hangar bay as secondary explosions rock the stardestroyer. He can hear the panicked voices of the remaining bridge officers from the secondary bridge barking orders, then countermanding them. He knows that the ship is dying. He is sure that the other ship is reeling as well.

His eyes light on a shuttle that is warming up. It only takes him a moment to bring the engines to full and then lift off.

He pulls out a datapad and ties it into the communications device. Data begins to flow. Invoices, manifests, of shipments of slaves and spice shipments, as well as the comm protocols used by a certain mysterious spice lord.

A spice lord that would draw the attention of even an avaricious Empire, as his networks had spread to the Core.

One party in particular would be interested in the shipments of slaves. Especially since those slaves were not being used by the Empire.

He makes his decision. He has no family. Only himself. 

Mal Adede punches his comm. “Governor Tarkin,” he says to the skull-like visage floating above the projector. “I have sent the confirmation that we discussed earlier.”

“We have received it, Lieutenant. Well done. Your loyalty to the Empire will be paid in full.”

“Thank you, Governor.”

“It is no small thing that Moff Secor’s incompetence has caused such delays. But the idea he was making a profit off of labor that could be used to complete the Scarif installation vexes the Emperor.” He shakes his head. “Lord Vader is already on his way with a task force. You have ensured that the datacaches are unharmed?”

“Yes, Governor. Even though we have sustained heavy damage from the attack by the other ship, they were deep in the ship.”

“Very well. Lord Vader will take care of that situation, as well. He will need to speak with Colonel Antol.”

“Begging the Governor’s pardon, but Moff Secor ordered her termination. The troopers went over to her ship before the attack began.”

Tarkin’s face flushes. He calms immediately. “That is unfortunate. Lord Vader takes his dispensation of justice seriously.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann pushes the oversized chair off of her, managing to stand. She wavers as the ringing in her ears continues. She steadies herself as she looks around the room. Her eyes widen as she feels the breeze from the area where the window had been.

Where a gaping, jagged hole is now present.

She hears a moan. She picks up a shard of metal and walks over.

Jano Secor lies on the deck, a large part of the ceiling on top of him. He looks at her through his single remaining eye. “Help me, Meglann. Please,” he says.

“Why should I?” she replies. 

“Because, it’s in your nature,” he manages to get out his voice full of pain, “just like your mother’s.”

“Might not be in mine, Secor,” another voice says. A voice that she has not heard in months. A voice with a warm, drawling Corellian inflection. 

Meglann whirls around. The figure standing there is not exactly what she expected. 

“Hey, Port,” he say. He staggers back as she flies into his arms. A launch similar to someone both of them love.

He returns her kiss. “Guess I didn’t even need to bother coming. You took care of the rescue yourself.” His one visible eye softens. “I think that you might have a couple of examples.” He grins. “Might put me out of the tarnished hero business.”

“Nah. Certain people might still find you useful.” She brings her hand up to the metal covering over his left eye, the red light of the cybernetic camouflage shining on her skin. She sighs. “I could use a ride, Gravy-Man,” she says, resting her cheek against his.

“Should be here in a minute,” he says. 

Meglann’s heart leaps as she sees another figure come into view. “Fit!” she yells. She abandons Bryne to pull him tightly to her. Her hands go to his cheeks. “I thought you were dead,” she sobs. The tears flow. She rests her forehead against his.

Fit reaches up and touches the blood oozing from her ear. “I never gave up hope, Meg-lann,” he says. 

She sees Covenant standing over Secor. She walks back over to him as he pulls his blaster.

“Who are you?” Secor gasps. 

“My name’s of no concern. I bring you the complements of Dav Kolan. He would’ve been here, but he had more pressing matters.” Meglann’s insides twist as he gives his crooked grin. “Like reorganizing his sock drawer,” he says. 

“That bastard always was hard to get rid of,” Secor says. “You here to kill me?”

Covenant just stares at him. Meglann touches his arm. “Bryne, don’t,” she whispers.

He smiles at her. “Is he your father?” Her eyes widen at his prescience.

She smiles. “No. He means nothing to me. Even if he’s of my blood, which I doubt, I’m sure that I’m just a possession to him. Just like my mother wrote of being one of someone in her squadron.” Her eyes harden as she looks down. “One that he could never have.”

She picks up a small device, from the deck. The gene-tester, with his genetic information in it. She sees hope in the old man’s eye. 

Meglann Florlin hurls it with all her might to the jagged hole. The wind catches it and it is gone.

Bryne and Fit smile at her. She turns to go. Bryne stops her. “Wrong way, sweetie,” he says. 

She hears a roaring noise. She turns back to the hole. A small ship, a large green stripe visible, slides next to the aperture. Her eyes widen as three figures appear in the open hatch.

She grins at two of them. A tiny figure—the one who had taught her to pick a pocket on an idle morning in her diner stands next to a huge former smashball star.

“Time to go, Groupie,” Boge M’Faru says. “Almost time for breakfast.”

She laughs. “Anytime, big guy.”

Her eyes focus on the other smaller figure. A near-human with slightly reptilian features, as well as a pair of piercing blue eyes and a thatch of graying hair.

“Mr. Covenant,” the being says. “I have a favor to ask. There’s another XTS ship just outside the system. I’ll need to rendezvous with it.”

“I guess we do owe you a bit, Thittan,” Bryne says. 

“Hate to cut this short, kid,” Phygus says, “but Murta says that three more ImpStars just jumped in. They’re heading for us.”

Thittan smiles. “I think we should be okay with the XTS ID, but I wouldn’t want to test it,” he says. 

He walks over and holds his hand out to Meglann. “Ms. Florlin. It is a pleasure to meet you. Let us depart this place. To get you back to your families.” He looks at Covenant and the others. “All of them.”

As they board the ship, she sees him send a discreet text.

+=+=+=+=+=

The young officer watches as the dark, gigantic figure on the screen closes his fists. She tries not to look at Captain Talonga and the XO struggling against unseen vises on their throats. She hears their last gasps, then the thud of their bodies striking the deck. 

She hears the stentorian breathing of the figure over the comm. “The price for failure to anticipate problems that may arise can be high, Commander,” he says.

“Lord Vader, I am only a lieutenant,” she says before she can stop herself.

“Yes. Take command of the vessel. Assist the ship that yours just fired upon. Make it so, Commander.”

She doesn’t bother to correct him this time.

+=+=+=+=+=

Darth Vader deactivates the comm that one of his troopers holds. He turns and looks down at the broken officer. The Sith Lord lifts his hand; the debris rising with it, away from Secor. The movement elicits a scream from the Moff as a jagged piece is pulled from his body.

He stares down at Secor. “The Emperor is displeased with your lack of progress, Moff,” he says. 

Secor says nothing in reply. 

“We could excuse your corruption and criminal behavior, but you’ve not served your Emperor. Only yourself.”

Jano Secor looks up at the Dark Lord. He feels himself lifting from the deck, then rotating, his feet off of the floor. 

As the vise tightens on his throat, he sees something that he could never have. The face of Elann Florlin, laughing at Therion Dao. Both of them happy. He sees both of them in the young woman that had just left here.

The constriction doesn’t last long as he feels himself propelled forward. An intense pain and burning in his chest—it is over.

Vader opens his fist and deactivates his lightsaber. He whirls, his cape billowing in the wind.

+=+=+=+=+=

Leeza Antol stumbles as the trooper shoves her into the sand. She stands up and turns around. “I’ll die on my feet,” she says. 

The trooper slings the blaster and reaches up. At that moment, Leeza realizes that the trooper is shorter than most. Even shorter than her.

The helmet comes off. Cantos Lardai stands in front of her.

Leeza lets out a breath. “It’s good to see you, love,” she says.

Lardai’s face remains impassive. She closes the distance. Leeza opens her arms.

Intense pain explodes in her chest. She looks down at the large, oddly shaped knife buried to the hilt in her chest.

Cant pulls her closer. Her lips touch Leeza’s. When she pulls back, Leeza can see the blood on the commando’s lips. Her own blood.

“Why?” she gasps out.

“Ask my father. Who your father murdered. Ask my mother, who your father abandoned as a slave on Tattooine. My father, who was the true _Antol’ich_ ,” she says. Lardai twists the knife, her teeth clinched.

She drops Leeza in the sand. “Goodbye, cousin.”

She turns on her heels as Leeza feels her eyes closing. 

As she does, she stares up into a new face. A young, darker-skinned male looks down at her, a grim look on his face.

She realizes as her vision fades, there is something familiar about his face.

Mal Adede looks at his comm. The text letters flash at him incessantly.

A text signed with a simple phrase. _Your new master._

He reaches down for the woman’s body.

+=+=+=+=+=

Sloane Conlyn plunges into the office of the Pryde-house. She pushes past the guards and office workers. She is conscious of Riyo right on her heels, her slightly shorter legs pushing her to keep up. Behntu immediately shoos the onlookers away.

She stops short at what she sees. Nola is sitting on the couch in the Senator’s chambers. Sloane’s eyes widen as she sees that the Naboo’s shirt is off. Boba Fett is pulling tight on a bandage below Nola’s breasts. 

Sloane gasps at the large bruise over Nola’s chest. She can see that the bruise extends almost to her collarbone and disappears into the top of the bandage continuing to wind its way around her.

She sees Nola holding her breath, her teeth clinched. Slone smiles gently at the concern in the bounty hunter’s dark eyes. _A tiny bit of concern,_ she thinks. 

Sloane allows her eyes to linger on Nola, before looking away. She does glimpse Nola’s smirk through the pain.

“What the hell are you doing? Get her in bacta,” she yells, as realization hits her. She feels Riyo’s hand on her shoulder.

“Not really an option, Sloane,” Nola says. “Have to do it the old fashioned way, unless I want to have my airways swell shut.”

Nola’s calm helps Sloane relax. She pulls closer as Boba finishes the bandaging. Sloane sees a look of understanding pass between the two.

Boba nods at Sloane and steps back. Sloane takes the Naboo’s hand in hers. “It you wanted to show me your chest, I could think of better ways to do it, Nola,” 

Nola laughs, winces, thinks better of it. The smile returns, though. “People who know me will tell you that I never do things the simple-ass way,” she says, taking care not to speak too loudly against the pain.

“So what happened?” Sloane asks. 

“Couple of assholes attacked us. Hero-girl here shoved me out of the way. Me, the only one wearing a full suit of armor, not just one hidden plate.”

“Could you identify them?”

“Got a couple of screen captures of them from my bucket,” he says. “Male and female. The male is hit, I think. He’s the one who fired the heavy rifle. Probably the reason that she has such a bruise and more than a couple of broken ribs.”

Sloane looks at Nola. “You idiot,” is all that she says. Nola has the sense to look sheepishly away.

Riyo closes her comm. She smiles broadly. “Just got a call from my new ‘client’,” she says. 

Sloane sees Nola’s hopeful look. She tightens her grip on Nola’s hand, bringing her other around to hold it.

“They’re on their way. She has a witness, as well, that she was on Raxus. The Xizor Transport Systems office has released the footage as well.”

Sloane nods. “We’ll still need to have a hearing. It would be best served to be held at the casino. To allow whoever owns it to answer for the taking.”

“May be hard,” Boba says. “We kept getting the runaround.”

Sloane looks at Behntu in silent communication. A small smile creases his solemn face. He turns and leaves.

“They’ll be here in ten hours or so,” Riyo says.

“Good. Plenty of time to get this one into my bed,” Sloane says, pointing at Nola.

All raise their eyebrows. Sloane gives an innocent look. “To sleep. What did you think I meant?” She looks at Nola before anyone can answer. “To be sedated,” she says to a rising protest.

She makes sure that her tone brooks no argument with the new Conyl-regent.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dani punches the Falleen repeatedly in the stomach. The woman had managed to kick the blaster out of her hand when she had been unable to fire, due to the fact that the junior varsity had jumped in and started defending themselves offensively. She was half-ready to let Jamelyn and Talle have the would-be attacker, seeing that Talle had already managed to stab the woman in the back of her thigh. 

Her eyes darken as she sees the Falleen manage to pull Talle’s knife out of her leg. Dani shifts away just as the blade punctures her forearm. Dani grits her teeth against the pain, then tries to count the stars that she sees as her forehead intersects with the thug’s skull ridge. She lifts her bare feet and shoves her small deputies away from the clash. She ignores their thunderous looks as they backpedal away. 

Dani fights to bring her knee up to the Falleen’s chest, pressing downward on the sternum. She manages to keep Talle’s knife from slicing or stabbing again by twisting the wrist holding it. She doesn’t force the blade from the powerful hands, but manages to hold it away, as she draws her own blade from the gunbelt that she had thrown on over her own sleep shirt. 

She hears a curse, but no scream of pain, as she hears and feels the woman’s wrist give and angulate backwards. Her eyes widen as she sees that the attacker still holds the blade, as well as a smirk on her green-blue tinted face, as the wrist is bent fully back, and remains in that position. 

The smirk freezes when Dani manages to let go of the broken wrist and bring her blade to the woman’s side, scoring a hit that scrapes along the Falleen’s ribs, before digging into the muscle. 

Dani shifts to her left, yanking the blade from the woman. As she does, two blaster bolts strike the attacker in the chest, barely missing Dani’s head. The kidnapper collapses on the bed.

Dani whirls and leaps to her feet, the blade held in a tight reverse grip. Her eyes narrow as she stares into the dark eyes of Delilah Sal. Sal holds the smoking blaster in her direction, their eyes locked. Out of the corner of her eye, Dani sees Talle and Jamelyn gather themselves, moving in the direction of the Advisor. She shakes her head at them, her eyes growing hot at the stubbornness, but her heart twisting with an odd pride.

Dani starts towards Sal. As she does, a cacophony of voices fills her hearing as a crowd piles in behind Sal. Draq’ Bel Iblis, Kris Tome, and Shavuot Colum are in the lead, their weapons drawn. 

It is the group behind her that captures Sal’s attention. A scrum of reporters, their holo recorders out, pointed at the three women. Two alive and one dead.

“Advisor Sal. What’s going on here?” several of the newshawks ask in harmony. “We received a tip about something happening here.”

Sal remains staring at Dani for a half-second, as if wondering if the Imperial bureaucratic machine could handle the murder of a Corellian officer on the holonet screens of Corellia. She unconsciously moves the knife in her hand from the grip to a throwing position, picking a target in the Imperial’s right eye. She sees Draq’s blaster come up, pointed at Delilah’s back.

Dani relaxes as she sees a switch flip in Delilah’s eyes. She lowers her blaster and turns, a smile painted on her features. “We’ve just foiled a kidnapping threat against the Elector-Presumptive. A joint operation between ISB and CorSec.” The last words have a begrudging tone about them.

Dani rolls her eyes. _What’s this ‘we’ shit?_ she thinks. _I ain’t convinced you aren’t a part of it._

She sees Draq’ give an imperceptible shake of her head. Dani finally relaxes her knife hand.

She realizes Sal has turned towards her. “We may have detected the plot, but it is down to the bravery of Daaineran Faygan, the Electarine-Caretaker and the Elector-Presumptive and her friend who fought the attacker off.”

Dani notices that Kris has already corralled the two little girls and gotten them away from the press. She realizes that those worthies are applauding. Applause led by the Imperial Advisor and directed at her. The _Electarine-Caretaker? Never heard that term used_.

After a moment, she dips her head, then turns away. As she does, her eyes are locked with her father’s. Another second and Sal would have fired. She would’ve killed Dani and blamed the kidnapper. With one quick movement, Dani slings the blade into the wall opposite the crowd. The blade bisects a small flower in the vase, exact dead center. 

Dani allows her resonance to open with the intense satisfaction at seeing the glimpse of fear in the Imperial Advisor’s eyes.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann Florlin takes a deep breath and continues down the ramp into the early morning air. She stops for a moment at the foot, breathing in the sights and sounds of the city coming awake. She had never really been able to appreciate the rugged beauty of the capital during her months here, as she had been kept inside at the restaurant.

She looks down at the datapad that he had borrowed from the older astromech, ostensibly to review her legal case. She had met Riyo Chuchi, her newly appointed advocate when they had arrived the night before. Riyo had smiled and folded her into her arms and had whispered that she was a friend of Ahsoka’s; that she should not worry. 

Meglann shakes her head at the memory of the other Pantoran in her life. Chi Hern, her former captain had embraced her tightly, his tears dotting the shoulder of her borrowed shirt. She had kissed him gently on his cheek and silently held him against his sorrow and pain for her taking.

As her feet take her along the unfamiliar streets, unconsciously following the datapad’s directions, she tries to make sense of what has happened to her over the past months. A simple change of direction—a desire to start anew— had put so many ripples into motion. She tries to fathom why Jano Secor, a man with the galaxy at his fingertips would cast a stone into the waters that would cause so many of those ripples. Merely at the chance that she might be his daughter. For a legacy?

Or because he had been denied—denied by her mother—the one thing that he could not have.

Meglann stops as she realizes that her reverie has brought her to the front of the casino. An entrance that she had never used, the entire time that she had been imprisoned there.

She sees some of the extreme late-nighters staggering out. She shakes her head and smiles—unconsciously mimicking an expression that she had seen a few times before. On the craggy face of Draq’ Bel Iblis, the Dragon of Corellia, the uncle of the hunter who had helped her find her way back to her path.

As she concentrates on the door in front of her and the path beyond, she doesn’t notice the figure that had followed her from the ship. One who had seen her furtive exit from the old ship and had followed her. 

A figure, like her, affected by their joint choices.

+=+=+=+=+=

Sera watches as an indenture wipes the bar down, pausing to lift the patron slumped over, sound asleep. Outwardly, she is calm, but inwardly her heart is sinking as she contemplates what the Senator’s Guardian had told her was in store for the restaurant.

A restaurant that was now her responsibility after Gordo’s death from one of his double- and triple- dealing business deals. A liability for an illegal indenture-substitution. A hearing that could determine if the bar would still be in her possession. 

Her blue eyes sweep over the bar and restaurant area. The elderly indenture currently on rag-maintenance duty, diligently polishing the same spot on the bar, is the only other being conscious in the establishment. She had sent everyone else home, canceling the breakfast hours. She looks at the former thief, who had managed to avoid capture until his sixties. She jerks her head towards the door. The older Rodian looks at her through bleary eyes. Without a word, he drops the towel on the floor and turns towards his sleeping quarters. 

She takes a deep breath and curses—knowing that she was powerless to do anything about his insubordination until the hearing was settled. She hears the front door open and close, cursing again when she realizes that the Rodian had not locked the front door. She turns, allowing a smile to flow to her features. “I’m sorry,” she starts. “We’re closed today. Come back tomorrow.”

Her blood runs cold at the voice she hears. 

“Hello, Sera,” the voice says. “Not here to eat.”

Asset # 276, also known as Elann Gort, also known as Meglann Florlin and the author of all of the troubles at Gordo’s, stands in the doorway to the bar.

+=+=+=+=+=

“Hello, Elann,” Sera says after a moment. “Good to see that you are alright—,” she starts.

“Save it, Sera,” Meglann says. She feels her anger rise, before she tamps it down. 

Sera’s eyes widen. “Why the hostility, Elann? I always treated you fairly. I even went out on a limb with the owner, offering you a place in my home.”

Meglann feels the facsimile of the Dragon smile return to her face. “Yeah. You’re a standup slaver,” she says. “Just don’t know who you were actually working for when you did that.”

Sera’s blue eyes flash. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, calling me a slaver. I was once in your position. I kept my nose clean, served my time, and got a job here.”

“Yeah. Some friends of mine gave me your file. You were part of a strongarm robbery team. Not exactly someone who should’ve even been in the indentures program. Guess you had skills the owner needed.”

“You shouldn’t have come here, Elann. It might’ve been better if you stayed away from Ganthel altogether. You might’ve lived a long and happy life.”

“Don’t know about that. I was taken offworld. I’m sure your buddies who took me would gladly take me again somewhere else.”

Sera takes a breath. “How did you know that I had anything to do with this?”

“Saw you lurking around just as I escaped. Somebody had to alert that Imperial that we had left. So tell me, which one did you work for? Secor or Antol?”

“Moff Secor wanted to keep an eye on his investment, as well as his employee. He paid well. Don’t know who tipped the Antol,” she finishes.

“Well, I guess when the hearing is held, all of this will come out. You might find yourself as an indenture again, Sera.” Meglann sees a smile creep over Sera’s face. 

“I don’t think so. I think that my problems are about to go away,” she says. 

Meglann feels a pair of hands on her shoulders. She starts to struggle, but the grip is of steel. She feels herself forced to her knees, but manages to turn her head slightly. A female in a dark cloak with a scarlet clenched fist around a chain watches her, a blaster held in her hands. She can just make out the male counterpart holding her shoulders. 

She turns back to Sera. The woman is smirking. Meglann hears a bored voice intone just above her. “Elann Gort, or whatever other name you have, you have just been re-captured after your third registered attempt. You are hereby sentenced to summary disposal.” 

Meglann feels the cold metal of a blaster touch the back of her head. She hears the whine of the firing cycle beginning.

She closes her eyes. She doesn’t hesitate.

Meglann hears the scream in her ear, as she brings the steak knife that she had purloined from an unbussed table as she had walked in, up and to her rear with both hands. The male Commerce-Taker drops his blaster and screams, clutching his groin where the cheap steel has suddenly found itself buried. Meglann kicks away, backpedaling away from him. She hears Sera yelling at the other Taker. 

Meglann stops backing away as the Taker brings her blaster back up. She aims and fires at Meglann before she can move. A blurred shape leaps into Meglann’s vision. The bolt intersects with the shape’s back as he lands on Meglann. She has the sensation of a thick beard and mustache—a familiar face—as Murta Locke, the Peacekeeper from Alderaan slumps over her. A Peacekeeper whose stricken face while watching her hold Gort in the remnants of her last life had haunted her dreams since that night. She feels his body relax in her arms as she hears a scream.

Meglann realizes it is from her own voice. She is vaguely aware of pounding footsteps behind her as Sera turns and runs. She ignores the Taker still pointing her blaster at her as her tears dot Murta’s still features. She rocks him in her arms as she thinks of choices.


	18. Meglann: Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ina was once thought of the least of the Conquerors of the Nine Hells; her slight frame, as well as her chosen skill of the cooking arts (in addition to forging some of the weapons used by her comrades,) forced many an opponent to underestimate her and her skill at chaos—equal to or greater than some of her companions. The small forging hammer, coupled with her prowess with a blade was as powerful as the cooking pot that she wielded when nothing else was handy. She became the first of band to complete the conquest of her Hell; leading it to being recast as the Realm of Creators, rather than one of destruction._
> 
> _The Pocket Guide to Corellian Mythology_

Dani looks around at Jamelyn to make sure that she is still belted into the rear seat of the small Corehopper. The Elector-Presumptive grins back excitedly as she watches the scene of destruction and chaos of hyperspace, only centimeters from her face. Dani blows her a kiss before turning back and smiling at her new co-pilot. Talle gives her a careful smile before turning away to monitor their progress. _Probably the first preteen copilot I’ve ever had_ , she thinks to herself.

Dani closes her eyes as she listens to the engine noise. She keeps her emotions in check as she thinks of what had precipitated this trip. 

“Dani, I think that you need to take the girls and get off-planet for a while,” Draq’ had said. “At least until we figure some of this stuff out.”

She had turned to her father, from watching Shyla Merricope sleep easily, with fire in her eyes. Draq’ had held up his hands placatingly. Hegridhara had removed her from the induced coma as it seemed that the genetic treatment of Dek’s was working; that the poison had seemed to absorb into her body’s own filtration system. She still had a long tunnel to follow, as Heg had said, but she seemed to be improving. It would take months of physical therapy to see what her mobility would eventually be.

“I’m not going anywhere, Draq’,” she had said. “I’m not running from the likes of Sal.”

Draq’ had pulled her to him in a deep embrace. “Not asking you to. I think that it would be good if Jamelyn and Talle were off-planet while the dust settles. Also, Shav thinks he will be able to run a separate investigation from ISB. We don’t need to have to worry about them while we are turning over any pissant-hills we find.”

She had looked over at Shyla and had run her fingers through the former Diktat’s hair. “Don’t worry about her. Dek Antilles is in charge of her treatment now. He’s the best chance for her to survive and to thrive. He said it will take time before she wakes up.”

Dani exhales gently. “What do you need me to do, Dragon?” she had asked. 

“Go to Ganthel and escort Nola back to Alderaan. We think that we’ve gotten it worked out, but we need her to go back. There’s now a warrant for her arrest. Bail and his Peacekeeper-General felt it was the best way to send a message that they are taking the matter seriously and being fair and transparent.”

“So I have to arrest my own foster-sister?” Dani asks, her anger rising again.

“In a word, yeah. I still have to come clean with Bail and Breha about this whole thing.”

Dani shakes her head. “Maybe if you didn’t feel the need to play the Dragon so much and stir the shitpot, you wouldn’t be in trouble with the Queen,” she says.

“I know. But I had to do it and keep them out of it. To protect them and to protect Nola.”

Dani starts to say something; thinks better of it. She kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you for looking out for her,” she whispers. 

He nods. “Also, go ahead and take Heg. There’s no telling what they have gotten into, knowing who all is involved. We’ll need to make sure that those two kids held as indentures are in good health.”

A beeping on the commpanel, as well as on the navicomputer, brings Dani’s attention back to the present. She looks at Talle and nods.

Bryne’s face appears above the console. One look at his expression and the snark dies on her lips. Dani’s heart sinks at the look.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann stares down at Locke, not caring about the other Taker pointing a blaster at her. As she wonders why she is not dead, she hears a crashing noise from the direction of the thug. She sees the woman at the apogee of crashing into the wall, her black-clad body sliding down the wall. Her eyes widen as the blaster flies through the air.

Straight into the hands of a tall, hooded figure. Her heart stops as a pair of powerful blue eyes stare into her own over a brown and white scarf that doubles as her hood. She hears herself breathe in, then out. 

Ahsoka Tano stands watching her, the blaster still held upside down in her left hand, her right hand still extended in the area of the now-unconscious Taker.

She hears a noise behind her, turns. Sera is shoved back into the room by a familiar figure in a gray business suit; a suit only a little darker than the stubble starting to grow out on his head. Sera turns to protest, but stills it, apparently seeing something in her captor’s green eyes. She turns and places her hands on the bar, most probably experienced at assuming a position of arrest. 

Bryne holsters his blaster and crouches next to Meglann. He touches Murta’s throat, sees the chest rising and falling. He helps her turn the ex-Peacekeeper over. After a moment, Bryne smiles and touches Meglann’s cheek. “I’ll get the medics to him. I think he’ll be alright.” He reaches over and kisses her, then jerks his head over to where Ahsoka stands watching them. “Go to her, sweetie. I’m sure that she doesn’t know what to do, either.” He pulls his comm out and activates it.

Meglann stands up. She starts to walk over to the warrior, then stops. 

She is engulfed in a powerful orange-bronze embrace as both of them compete to see who will leap into the other’s arms first.

+=+=+=+=+=

Covenant watches as the stretcher droid lifts Murta to take him to the _Draq’stone_. He turns his attention to the two young women lost in each other’s arms, ignoring everything else. 

A small group walks in behind them. A regal woman, clad in a bronze mantle leads the way. He grins as he sees Riyo Chuchi look at Ahsoka, her expression soft. Her ‘wife’—Jana—returns the look, but doesn’t let go of Meglann. Riyo smiles. 

Nola Vorserrie grins at him as she stands between Boba and a giant Ganthel, who wears a narrow version of the regal woman’s mantle as a sash over his huge chest. His gray eyes take in the room with a wary amusement. 

Bryne’s eyes lock on Nola’s hands. They are bound in front of her in electronic cuffs. His eyes flash as he stalks towards her and the group. 

He stops, as she holds her hands up. “It’s okay, Bryne. The Queen has ordered me taken into custody.” She grins ruefully. “Sorta knew it would happen. I think they’re anxious to clear this up. Good news, though. The bounty has mysteriously been lifted.”

Bryne calms his breathing. He looks at Fett. “I guess I owe you the credits.”

“Yep. Might charge extra. Hazard pay for being exposed to her so-called wit,” he says. Nola’s eyes flash until she grins, as she hears the inflection in his voice through the vocoder of the helmet. A very slight color of humor in the dry tones, that she apparently shares Bryne’s ability to recognize.

“Asshole,” she says. “You loved it and you know it.”

“So how are you getting to Alderaan, Last Word?” Bryne asks.

“Supposedly Dani is taking me, according to what they told the Senator,” she says, gesturing to the Ganthelian woman.

Bryne’s eyes narrow. “That won’t work. I need Dani to go back with us.” He looks at Meglann, talking quietly with Ahsoka. “I think that Meglann may need to talk,” he adds. 

He looks at Boba. “Whaddaya say? Think you could babysit her a bit more? I can arrange a rendezvous with an Alderaani ship.” His eyes grow hard. “Since you aren’t exactly welcome on the Mother.”

“I don’t know, King. That might cost extra.”

Bryne rolls his eyes. “You’re getting expensive, No-no. How much?” he asks.

“How much have you got on you?” Fett asks.

Bryne reaches in his pocket, makes a show of searching. “Twenty credits. And a Corellian public transportation token.”

“I’ll take it. You can keep the token, since I’m about as welcome on Corellia as I am on Alderaan. Never let it be said I took a man’s last bit of metal.”

After a moment of staring at each other, Bryne flips the coin to him. Boba catches it deftly. 

“We may still have a conversation about that Ranger and the Peacekeeper. I won’t include the kicks to the balls that you sent my way.”

Boba nods. “I know, King. Those deaths are on me.”

Bryne nods. “Maybe stay out of the Core and we won’t have to have the conversation.” He grins. “I think Nola might be heartbroken though,” he finishes. He can feel the grin beneath the bucket.

“Apparently she has a thing for _beskar’gam_ ,” Boba says dryly. “She even borrowed some.”

“No,” Covenant says, “she stole it. And dented it.” He looks at Nola who is holding her cuffed hands up, demonstrating her interpretation of their mental ages with both of her middle fingers.

“Give us a moment, Boba,” he says. 

Boba nods. “The meter’s running.” He turns and leaves. He stops at the two young women still in a tight embrace. He stares at the taller of the two. 

Covenant tenses, then relaxes as he turns away from Ahsoka. _She’s not fourteen any more. He’s not ten,_ he thinks.

Covenant turns to the woman standing patiently next to Behntu. He bows his head. “My name is Covenant, ma’am. I’m from the government of Corellia. What is Meglann’s status?”

A wide smile splits her features. She looks him up and down. “Yes, you’re as Nola described. To a ‘T’.” 

Covenant looks at Nola, who flushes. He returns his even gaze to the Senator. 

She holds out her hand. “My name is Sloane Conlyn. I’m the Administrator and Senator of this world. As far as the government of Ganthel is concerned, Ms. Florlin is free to go. We have the affadavits and the footage of the Xizor droid, establishing that she was taken off world. I think that it has come to light that the indenture that was supposedly being sought by the Takers was not even an indenture, merely posing as one.”

Sloane looks at Meglann. “Ms. Florlin, I am extremely sorry. Now that I’m the Conyl-Regent, we will be examining the entire system.” She looks at Sera, who has the good sense to look away. “We will also start condemnation and auction proceedings against this establishment. You may be a rich young woman before this is over.”

Meglann is quiet in Ahsoka’s arms. Bryne can see her eyes look off in the distance. “No. I don’t want it. If you can, divide it up among the indentures of this place.” She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them with a bright smile. “Especially a young man named Fit, who helped me get out of a predicament.”

Sloane nods approvingly. “I have already met young Fit. He impresses me, as well as my Guardian. I think that he will be attached to my household and hopefully learn some things.” She smiles. “He will be paid a salary, Meglann,” the Senator says. “I think he deserves that much, especially since the contract of indentures that kept him here after his father died and his mother escaped was illegal, even under the harsher laws that came in with the Empire.”

Meglann nods, almost overcome.

Sloane looks at Nola. “I’ve engaged a very good advocate, my dear,” she says, glancing at Riyo. “She will meet you there.” 

Nola starts to protest, then stops. “Hush, Nola,” Sloane says, walking over to her and taking her bound hands in her own. “The Conyl-Regent should not have to make visits to have dinner with you in a prison system. Although,” she says with a sly look, “I think that you’ll be fine. Both Senator Organa and the Queen seem to be extremely fond of you.”

Bryne watches as Nola looks away, her eyes tearing. He puts his hand on her back. 

“Especially with all of that research you’ve been doing on our holdings in Wild Space that you didn’t think that I knew about,” Sloane finishes. Nola’s eyes widen, then she looks away, sheepishly. “You get out, we’ll meet. I think that I know what you have in mind for your little side job.”

She moves away, with one last glance at Nola. Behntu winks at Nola as he corrals Sera with one large hand, shifting her to the cops who have finally arrived.

Both Bryne and Nola feel themselves drawn over to Meglann and Ahsoka, who have remained quiet. Without a word, Bryne is drawn into a tight embrace with the three young women.

He holds them as tightly as he can. He feels Ahsoka’s lips on his, her eyes open as they usually are.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann walks up to the hatch. She places her head against the carved wood and takes a deep breath. She closes her eyes, thinking of the joy of looking up from the floor of the restaurant that she had found herself in, after slipping away from Adede and Lardai and seeing the familiar figures enter her vision.

The tall, masked figure, the tips of her lekku just visible under the scarf. A slightly smaller, but no less powerful figure in a business suit. Newer allies, some that she had met, others that she had not. All thinking they were there to rescue her, but finding that she was still fighting.

Her eyes tear as she thinks of one—one who she hadn’t met on Alderaan, but felt even more responsible for her losses. An older man with a mouth hidden by a mustache, but with kind eyes that she had just caught a glimpse of. Just before he had taken a blaster bolt in his back intended for her. 

A man who now rested in another cabin, a tiny Drall physician watching over him, as well as the man’s comrade—a large fellow Alderaani who had been a hero of hers from her childhood, watching smashball with her uncle—one of the few things that they both had in common.

She thinks of the price of her choices. The price for her and for others. All choices made to help her escape after she believed that her life had collapsed on her homeworld, as well as to find her past. Choices that had led her to a form of legalized slavery—by any other name. Meglann shakes her head and pulls it back from the wood. She knocks gently. The door opens and she enters.

Her eyes adjust to the dim light of the stars in the port. Meglann gasps as she sees the two figures standing in the center of the cabin, their arms about each other. She makes to turn away and exit the room. 

“No, sweetie, come on in and stay,” Ahsoka says, her chin on Covenant’s shoulder. 

Bryne gestures to her. “Come on, babe,” he says. 

She shakes her head, “I can go. You two need some time together.” Her eyes tear. “After you’ve lost so much, because of me,” she says, a catch in her voice.

Ahsoka is at her side in an instant. She takes the young woman in her arms. It is at that moment that she realizes that both she and Bryne are clad only in their leggings or trousers. “Shh, Meglann. You didn’t cause us to be apart.” She looks at the Corellian. “Our lives and our responsibilities cause us to be apart.” She Smirks. “Maybe a little bit of our own goddamned stubbornness as well.”

Covenant nods. “I think that’s on me, mostly. I sometimes let my need to be the protector overwhelm my responsibilities as her hunt-brother. To let her protect with me.” He looks down. “I felt like I failed her. I failed you.”

Ahsoka rests her forehead against Meglann’s. Her eyes lock with Bryne’s. “I think we’ve grown past that, Bait. We have both grown, but sometimes we both fall back on old habits. I realized how much you were hurting for Meglann and her losses. You were trying so hard to take it all on you, so that I could be Fulcrum for the galaxy while you found her. For me.”

Meglann feels her heart leap at the looks that they give each other. She grins at the Smirk flowing again to the familiar features. “I’ve grown a little bit more, though.”

Meglann rolls her eyes and kisses Ahsoka’s forehead. “You both are a couple of dumbasses, but I’ll always love you both for that stubbornness.” She pushes Ahsoka away. “I think that you both need to take off the rest of your clothes and fall into each other.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “Nope. I think all of us need rest. The light will come.” She pulls the young woman towards Covenant. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep.” She smiles. “I think that there’s enough of him to go around.” The smile morphs again into the Smirk. “He’s kind of useful for keeping your butt and your feet warm.”

Meglann laughs. “Yeah. But he has a few other uses, as well. Just like you, Brawler.” The tears spill freely. “You are both absolutely relentless when those you care about, or an innocent, are threatened.” _As well as the galaxy_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say. _You both are what the Jedi were meant to be._

Bryne watches as Ahsoka’s hands move to the closure of Meglann’s borrowed trousers. Her hands are cool on Meglann’s skin where her shirt rides up from the top of those trousers. She stares into the deep blue pools. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him pull them both tight to his chest.

She feels a warmer pair of hands on the skin of her lower back, as her shirt is drawn up. She raises her arms as Covenant slides the tank over her chest and off of those arms. She turns and kisses him gently, just a touch. She repeats the movement on Ahsoka’s lips. 

The air plays over her skin as she steps out of the trousers. Ahsoka’s eyes are drawn to the brief covering over the juncture of her legs. She twists in Ahsoka’s arms, as she moves her hands to Bryne’s belt. A pair of strong orange hands moves to aid her in unwrapping the Corellian.

It is a matter of a few brief moments before all of them stand in their underwear. All three nod and turn towards the bed. 

Bryne lies down in the middle of the bed and extends his arms. Meglann climbs over him and lies with her head on his left shoulder.

Ahsoka mirrors him on the right. Meglann feels her take her hand in hers and clasp it. Their hands move to the scar on Bryne’s chest, resting there. Their breathing syncs as their eyes close. All threats of death, separation, and newfound paths float away as they sleep. 

+=+=+=+=+=

A Zeltron smiles and runs her fingers through hair and over lekku as she watches the three sleep. She sits down on the bed and gently moves the three where they will be comfortable. 

Dani watches them for a moment. She looks at Ahsoka lying against Bryne, making a decision. She kisses Meglann awake, holding her finger to her lips. “Come on, sweetie. Come with me. I know you want to comfort both of them, but they need each other.” The young woman’s eyes are confused with fatigue. Her eyes clear. She looks at the two, her eyes soft. Dani kisses her again, gently. “Come on. You need some more sleep. We’re lifting off soon to go to Alderaan. You’re going to be in the cockpit with me.” Meglann’s eyes widen. “Yeah. You heard me. You’re going to lift us off. But not until you get a couple more hours.” Her eyes transition to black for an instant. “Afterwards, we’ll have a few hours. Might figure something to pass the time.” Her index finger ghosts over Meglann’s cheek, tracing down over her throat and chest. 

She pulls Meglann up and slaps her on her ass. “Come on. Got some quarters of your own.” She picks up a robe that is slung over a chair. “The cabin is down the passageway. This will help keep our crew from having a heart attack.”

She notices that Meglann’s eyes are troubled. “Dani, after we lift off, can I have a rain check on the entertainment? I have something I need to do.” Dani can feel the sadness rolling off of the young woman. She has an idea of what that ‘something is.’ She nods. “Okay. But you need at least six hours’ sleep. Otherwise Heg knocks you out.”

She grins cheekily. “You got it, Captain,” she says. She turns and walks out. Dani smiles, then turns back to the two remaining in each other’s arms. “At least somebody recognizes who is in charge on this boat,” she whispers. She turns and curses under her breath as she steps on a child’s toy. She shakes her head, then walks out of the main cabin.

+=+=+=+=+=

Covenant comes awake suddenly in the dim light of the morning. His mind reels with visions and sensations. He closes his eyes and tries to recall what had flowed through his jumbled mind’s eye in the night. His heart rips as he sees a dark figure, indistinct in scarlet light, slicing down with a red lightsaber. He hears a scream in Ahsoka’s voice as the saber slices into her.

The sight switches to another setting. A bright sunny day on an unknown planet. An older version of Ahsoka stands in the light, cloaked and hooded, a white staff in her hand, her blue gaze steady, a serene expression on her face.

His eyes snap open again. He paints a smile on his face as he realizes that Ahsoka is lying full on him, that same blue gaze looking into his eyes with concern, a warm smile on her lips. 

He shakes his head, willing the first memory to vanish. 

“You okay, Bait?” she ask, just before she reaches down and kisses him.

“Yep,” he says. He can only hope he is convincing.

She leans up from him as she allows her lips to play over his face in a series of touches. “Scary monsters? What was it about?” she asks, between kisses. 

“Don’t remember,” he replies, looking her in the eye. He moves his mouth to her throat, matching her kisses, until he has moved down to her breasts. He fastens his mouth to her nipple, eliciting a soft gasp.

“Okay, Bait. Go ahead and distract me. But don’t hold anything back from me.”

They are both quiet except for gasps and soft whimpers as they hold each other.

Finally, they break apart, as Ahsoka pushes him away. “We do have to talk, Jame,” she says, laying her head against his chest. “We have to talk about the future of how we move forward with the fight.”

“What do you want, Ahsoka? I’ll follow your lead,” he says quietly. He looks away as he says it.

She brings his eyes back to hers with a finger. “Why start now, Bait?” she asks, the Smirk growing on her face. 

After a brief paroxysm of laughter from his repeated assault on certain places, he stops and gathers himself. “I think that the idea of me building a cell to support you, as well as doing whatever I can in the Core is a solid one. I already have some people in mind; I don’t see it being any larger than ten of us—including Nola as the conduit.”

She nods, continues to listen. He forges forward.

“Obviously, I’m selfish and want as much time with you as possible. But I recognize that I may not always be the best person to back you up. We’ll all be able support you, if needed. Plus, I think that there will always be Tamsin’s ship available for you as you need it.”

“If we can keep from killing each other,” she says. 

He grins. “I thought that, too, but I figured out a more enjoyable way to engage her.”

She rolls her eyes, but matches his grin. “You would, sport.” Her smile softens. “Might be mildly entertaining and distracting.” She sobers. “I noticed that you’ve already come up with codenames for some of them. Where does that come from?”

He grins. “Organa, believe it or not. I’m not sure that he knew it though, when he picked my codename. In Corellian mythology, Tempest is the conqueror of the First Corellian Hell—the Realm of Storms. There are eight other hells and their associated figures, plus Seoladan—the conduit.” He grins. “Of course, the Dragon, or Draq’ was the one who united the Hells. We’ve got five already. Boge and Murta—if he wants to, after he recovers.” He touches her face. “Balor and Touchstone are both already there as is Orla, the daughter of Balor.” A grin flows over his features. “Maybe five and a half.”

“Oh, of course the Dragon conquered all,” she says. His grin widens as she manages not to roll her eyes at him. “What realms do they represent?”

“Boge is Maxim, the Watcher—the ruler of the Realm of Shields, the Eighth Hell. Murta is Damab—the Steersman. His realm is that of the stars and the seas and the ships that sail in them—the Ninth.” 

“You said five. You’ve only mentioned four.” she says.

“Yeah. The Second Hell. The Realm of Ishta, the Warrior Seductress.”

She nods, smiling at the choices. “Can’t imagine who that would be,” she says, thinking of her sister of the heart.

“Yeah, well. She won’t be able to be with us full time, but it’ll give her an outlet, love.” He looks down as the word comes out. “Sorry,” he says. 

She touches his lips with her thumb. “Don’t be,” she whispers. “Even though we don’t have to say them, I like hearing them—without the camouflage of our different languages.” Her eyes grow large, as if she was a teenager again. “Especially against my skin.”

They are both silent as they rest their foreheads against each other. Finally, Ahsoka raises up. 

“You’ve given this some thought,” she says approving. “I’m suddenly transported back to those lectures on Corellian history at the Temple. “Kinda convenient that these names match up almost perfectly to who you’ve chosen.”

“Maybe. You were at least paying attention. You were the one who chose Drop’s codename. The Unbroken Giant.” He hugs her tighter. “At least you aren’t snoring,” he says.

“Nope. Not anymore. I love hearing you talk about something that you’re passionate about, Bait,” she says, kissing him. “So. Fulcrum and the Hells. Sounds like a boy band.”

“You’re the expert on that, Runt,” he snarks. He flips her over, causing a brief squeak—a squeak that turns into a growl as his mouth plays over her lekku. She turns her face back to his. Her expression takes on a devilish quality. His heart seizes as he remembers someone else with that same expression. A strong, beautiful Mando warrior, who had often used it on him. He shakes the sorrow away. _Live for the here and now, King_ , he hears in his mind, in the warm voice of that young woman.

“Of course, hearing you talk like this—passionately about something, makes me kinda horny.” Her hands move downwards and yank their remaining garments away.

She takes a deep breath as she grasps him. “I want you to take me, Jame. I don’t want gentle. I want to live.” He sees her grimace at her choice of words. “I sound like a damned cheap romance holonovel,” she says. “I don’t even know what one sounds like.”

He silences her with his lips as he moves over her. She pulls him to her, allowing him inside of her from behind for a moment, before managing to flip back over to look into his eyes. He closes his own eyes as he feels those words that she had spoken of earlier, against the skin of his chest.

He pushes thoughts away of someone else that he has in mind for the Hells. A young diner owner who had asked him for advice on how to join the fight. 

_Not the time,_ he thinks. He dispels the thoughts of the Fifth Corellian Hell—the Realm of Creators and its conqueror, Ina, the Hammer. In some ancient depictions, she wields a frying pan rather than a hammer. Her code name is the given name of the last person to hold the Electoral Signet of Corellia—his grandmother, Ina Raylan-Blackthorn.

He is not sure how Ahsoka will take this addition.

Later, as they try to catch their breath, the low rumble of the engine start cuts into their respite. “Come on. I think Meglann may be driving,” she says, a Smirk on her face. “Might want to get to a lifepod.” 

Their laughter dispels the pain and the thoughts of those joining the Hells. They pull tightly into each other’s arms.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann walks into the cockpit. The large ex-Peacekeeper, Boge M’Faru sits in the chair immediately behind the seat on the forward right. Warmth rises in her center as Dani walks in. “Hello, dear. Have a seat in the co-pilot’s seat,” she says, gesturing to that right forward seat. 

Meglann takes a deep breath and moves into the seat. She feels Boge stand and touch a control at the base of the seat. The seat moves forward. “Make sure you can reach that pedal, there. You’re going to need it, Groupie,” he says. She looks up at the nickname, smiles. 

“Okay, dear,” Dani says as she sits in the left seat. “Boge’s already got the engines started and has done the pre-flight. Next time you’ll do your own. It’s always good for a pilot to take responsibility for their own ship.”

“Then why don’t we start over?” Meglann says. 

Dani smiles. “I like your attitude, love. But we’re on a timetable. I need to get you to Alderaan to make sure any court protections we might need are filed.” 

Meglann’s brown eyes widen. “Could they take me back? They’ll…”

“No. They won’t. Sloane has guaranteed it. But you never can tell what lawyer might crawl out and try something for Gordo’s estate. We’ll hit them in their money, if they fight. Or at least Draq’ will.” Dani shakes her head. “Come on, sweet-cheeks,” the older woman says. “Focus. Look down to your right. You see that row of lights and switches?”

Meglann locates them. “Yeah. There’s one that’s red.” 

Dani smiles. “That’s good. Those are all of the vents and hatches. If they’re red, we can’t leave. We’ll be breathing vacuum.”

“What’s the red one?” Meglann asks. 

“That’s the main ramp. Still down. Flip the switch, then we’re all buttoned up.” Dani points at a monitor. “Nobody around it.”

Dani adjusts a small lever near the throttles. “Just switched the lifting repulsors to the pedals. Put your left foot down on that one. Into the stirrup. Make sure you keep it down.”

“What is it?” Meglann asks. 

“That’s the deadman’s switch. You suddenly have a heart attack, your foot probably won’t lift up, with the stirrup engaged. We won’t crash,” Dani says matter-of-factly.

She looks at the younger woman. “You ready?”

“No,” comes the quick reply.

“Good. Now touch the other pedal. Gently.” She smirks. “Like you’re touching my clit with your toe,” she whispers. There is a jerk as Meglann touches the pedal involuntarily with a squeak. “Good. See how sensitive she is?” 

She hears a mutter from behind. “Didn’t know I was going to need a cold shower just to take off,” Boge says.

“Ease on it, baby,” Dani says.

There are a few more jerks as the old ship begins to rise. “Pull back on the sidestick, just a little bit.”

Meglann pulls back gently. The ship levels out and rises even more. “Check your altitude on the screen. Top number.”

“Says one hundred.”

“Good. Stand by to disengage lifters,” Dani says. “Put your hand on the throttle.” She places her warm crimson hand over the paler one. “We’ll ease it forward in sync with coming off of the pedal. Ready? 3,2,1…”

There are a couple of more jerks, but the forward motion and rise takes the place of the vertical. Dani smiles tenderly at the wide-eyed expression as the blue soon turns to black and the speed increases. “Good job, sweetie,” she says. She checks her screen. “Now steer right and pull back on the stick until those numbers there say +310, -05, +30. Touch the little cone-shaped thingy on the top of the grip to give her some roll up. Set coordinates for jump to lightspeed,” she says to Boge. 

“Sublight engines ready for standby,” Boge says. There is silence for several moments as the navicomputer works.

“That one right there, Meglann,” Dani says, pointing to a lever off from the other engine controls. She nods. She hears Boge say, “Standby mode.”

Meglann Florlin’s eyes widen as she pushes the lever forward. The stars transform into streaks, then to a swirling blue tunnel of chaos and beauty.

A warm drawl intrudes into her hearing. “Great job, Port,” Covenant says. 

Her heart clinches, a wide grin marking her features. She turns. Ahsoka stands next to him. She looks away, unable to meet the younger woman’s eyes. She spins and walks out. 

The grin fades. There is silence in the cockpit except for the hum of machinery.

Dani sees the tears build in Meglann’s eyes. She touches her hand. “It’s okay, love. Give her time. She would rather you not have to fight.”

Bryne shares a look with Boge as Meglann gets up and rushes out of the cockpit.

He sits down in the chair she has vacated, staring at the chaos of hyperspace. Dani rises and jerks her head to Boge. They both follow the others out, leaving him to his thoughts.


	19. Home: And the Debate was done.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sheer ability and skill of Draq’ Bel Iblis at moving dejarik pieces around the galaxy, all while making the pieces think that they were either moving of their own accord, or someone else was moving them, was unmatched. He would never be a leader of a coalition, or even of an underground movement, but his value to the Rebellion was that he would support and protect those leaders—being willing to engage with anyone that he felt was needed to advance the cause. There were any number of criminals and corrupt politicians who didn’t realize that they were providing support to a Rebellion to restore the Republic. Of course, some were willing to help because of a bank of in-kind debts that Bel Iblis had built over his years of service to the Corellia and his mastery of the Corellian Art of the Possible _.__
> 
> __  
> _Excerpt from Volume I: _Fulcrum and Tempest, Thieves and Smugglers: Corellia in the Late Rebellion to Restore the Republic__  
> 

Meglann enters the small cabin that doubles as a medbay. She tries to clear her eyes and control her sobs in the quiet of the room.

She feels a small paw touch her leg. A tiny creature, his gray fur covered in a medical tunic; intelligent dark eyes smiling up at her. “It is alright, my dear. This is a safe place,” Dr. Hegridhara says. He motions to a chair, then moves his stool up beside it. He walks over to another stool and steps up to the sink. He draws a glass of water, dismounts, then steps on the stool next to her. She gulps the water down. 

She looks over at Murta Locke, lying silently on the bed, the steady beat of his heart transmitted in beeps and lines on a screen. “He will be alright. We need to get him to bacta.” He smirks, the expression one of love and humor. “I think we need to tell Dani and King, or even that cheap old bastard Bel Iblis, that the next investment in this barge should be a bacta tank, not another liquor cabinet filled with that expensive mother’s milk that they call whisky.” She grins at him. “Of course,” he continues, “if they fill it with _nak_ , that might be a different story. Or even Port-in-a-Storm from Mr. Locke’s mother’s world.

“Pamarthe,” he says to her questioning look. “Probably where he gets the piloting skills. Can’t tell whether the dour, grumpy personality comes from the Alderaani upbringing and father, or his birthworld.”

“What’s Port-in-a-storm?”

“Liquid fire. One of the few drinks that even a Drall is unable to stomach more than one of at a time.”

She nods, turning back to Murta. She moves closer and takes his hand in hers. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating your freedom?” he asks.

“Really can’t, Doctor. He’s here because of me. If I hadn’t left and gotten myself in that jam, he wouldn’t be lying there.”

Without a word, he crawls up into the chair with her. She finds it odd that a galactic renowned doctor and medical researcher, is sitting in her lap like a child. 

_Oddly comforting_. 

He turns and gazes at her. “That is funny, young lady. Mr. M’Faru says the reason that he may not be waking up, when he should be, is because he blames himself for your predicament. Something about being drawn away so that your cook could be killed.”

Meglann slumps, tears coming unbidden to her eyes again. Heg pulls her head to his tiny shoulder. He strokes her head, its cropped dark blond tresses beginning to grow out again. He pushes her away from his shoulder. “I think that when he comes out of bacta, you have a lot to talk about.” He smiles gently. She kisses him on his cheek as he climbs down. “Go. You have a lot of rest to catch up on.” His eyes roll. “Or not, given who is on this ship.” He takes her hand in his. “That can be life-affirming, as well,” he says. Meglann rises and walks over to the bed. She reaches down and kisses Locke on the small part of his forehead not covered in hair. She nods to Heg and turns away.

+=+=+=+=+=

Dani walks into the small cargo bay. She watches the ex-Jedi move through lightsaber katas. Every time she sees this, the grace and beauty of the warrior floors her. 

Nearly the same grace and beauty would be seen when she would watch Covenant do the same thing. Something he rarely does anymore, with his Force-sense as intermittent as it is. Her eyes grow sad as she sees the expression on the younger woman’s face. 

Ahsoka finishes the round, then draws a towel to wipe her face. Dani walks over to her and takes the towel, wiping the sweat away. She throws the towel away, then runs her hands to Ahsoka’s cheeks. She kisses the warrior gently, letting her tongue move into the full lips.

After a moment, Ahsoka opens her mouth to return the kiss. As they break free, Dani looks up at the warrior. “What was all that about in the cockpit, sweetie?” she asks. 

Ahsoka is silent. She looks away. 

Dani presses on. “All Meglann wants is your approval, love. You crushed her as surely as you had hit her.” 

Tano’s face grows stubborn. “She should learn that the goddamned universe isn’t all hugs and tookas,” she says. 

Dani rolls her eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me? She just spent a half-year or so as a goddamned near-slave. She was lucky she had cooking skills. A girl with her looks could’ve wound up as a dancer, or worse, a whore.” She pokes her finger in Ahsoka’s chest. “Bryne told me that they were about to execute her in the middle of that restaurant because she had tried to escape too many times. They were going to shoot her in the head and leave her there like so much trash to be picked up. All because the law on that planet under the Empire said that they could. Riyo checked. That extreme interpretation of the indentured servitude law only came up in the last months of the Clone War. I think that she deserves the chance to fight with us.”

Ahsoka is silent. Dani continues, on a roll. “Turns out she really didn’t need us to rescue her. She just needed the legal work. Riyo and Sloane and Nola could’ve done that. She really just needed us for a ride.” She takes Ahsoka’s face in her hands again. “Meglann worships the ground you walk on. She just wants to be as much like you as her birth will allow. She wants to fight. She doesn’t just want somebody to fight for her.”

Dani can see the pain in the young warrior’s eyes. “But I don’t want her to fight!” she cries. “I want her to be normal. To be an accountant or a diner owner, or whatever it is she can be. She is what I fight for.”

“It’s going to take diner owners and accountants, Ahsoka,” comes a quiet voice near the hatch. Meglann stands there, her eyes clear. She walks over to the two women. They both pull her into their arms. 

“I am proud of you, Meglann. I just wish I could do my job well enough so that you could be my normal,” Ahsoka whispers. 

“I think that’s kind of selfish on your part, Brawler,” Meglann says. “I would rather that you and Bryne could go somewhere and hide. You could go to Shili and hunt, or raise babies or nerf or something.” She smirks. “Or have a pony farm.”

“It ain’t in the cards, babe,” Ahsoka says, unconsciously echoing Bryne Covenant’s deep voice and inflection. 

Meglann nods. “I know. Just like it ain’t in the cards for me to be a diner owner.”

“About that,” Ahsoka says. “May have a surprise for you. Your ‘family night customer’ wants to help. He has an idea where you can still own it, but somebody else will run it for you. Or buy it from you.”

Dani smiles as she sees something in the young woman’s eyes. Something that has probably been missing from those eyes. _Home_.

Dani and Ahsoka watch as that emotion battles with another in the young woman’s eyes. _Duty_. Her next words tell them which has emerged victorious. “Be good to have something to go back to when the light is restored.”

Dani sees Ahsoka’s eyes fall. Meglann sees the sadness as well. She reaches over and kisses the fighter. A mischievous glint appears in Meglann’s eyes. “We have fifteen hours to kill. Any ideas?”

Dani and Ahsoka both grab the younger woman’s ass. “I think the four of us can come up with something, ” Ahsoka says as her eyes track downward. “Somebody has to pull Covenant out of his funk.”

“Think Boge is working on that,” Dani says. 

“Only hope they both survive the experience,” Ahsoka says, a Smirk flowing across her features. “I’ll go and find him.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Dorith Panteer looks at the datapad with his speech to the Council one last time. His thoughts are untroubled as he dismisses the fact that the person who had pressed him to start his campaign against the Organas, all of those months ago, could not be contacted. He shakes his head. No matter. Leeza Antol would lose out on trying to use him to sow chaos and discord.

She had been singularly inept at it when she had tried to increase the Antol’s criminal threads on Alderaan, after they had been run off of Naboo.

He thinks of the other favors he could call in. A stint as Fondor’s Senator before he returned to his homeworld had netted him rich contacts in both the Republic, then Imperial navies, as well as those that they policed. One recent one would probably pay huge dividends when he had—.

He stops as his door opens. Dainet Weaselton walks into his office, uninvited, and unannounced. She sits down in his guest chair and puts her feet on his desk. She stares at him for a few moments, her auburn eyebrows raised. She then pulls a flask from inside her robe and takes a sip.

“Your Grace, as much as I like your company and would love to stay and chat, I don’t have time. I’m scheduled speak to the Council on the Vorserrie matter—.”

She holds up a manicured hand. “About that, my dear. You might want to check your bank balances,” she says. 

His eyes widen at her tone. He turns to his panel and touches a few buttons. He sits back in his chair as the numbers blink accusingly on the screen. He touches his left hand to his goatee, as he tries to calm his heartrate.

“Yes, your Grace. You’ve had a good week. An extra two million in your account. I am sure that’s just a coincidence that this is the same amount that supposedly appeared in Nola Vorserrie’s account.”

“I don’t know how that got in there,” he starts.

She shakes her head. “Well, since that amount of money showed up, Customs and Excise was notified. They started a routine trace. They found that those credits went all over the galaxy. It started on Fondor, then went directly to Ms. Vorserrie’s account, then to yours.”

He stands up, his face burning with anger and indignation. “I knew she was corrupt. Now she is trying to implicate me.”

Dainet grins. “That’s cute, Dorith,” she says. “The money came from a holding company of one of your business partners. An individual who served the Republic, then the Empire as a sector Moff.” Her eyes harden. “An individual who you happened to sponsor the bill for his promotion to flag rank. After he had been passed over more than a few times.”

He remains quiet. 

“We were just informed by ISB that Moff Secor died fighting for the glory of the Empire. Reading between the lines, that usually means that he got it in the neck from Imperial authority. We also heard the same about your buddy Antol, although her body hasn’t been recovered. Seems to me you were playing everybody against each other. You were even seen with that lawyer, Stark, who turned out to be another Antol.”

“How do you know all of this? What is it to you?” Dorith asks, sitting down again.

“I am a loyal servant of Alderaan, not just my House or myself. I’m just passing information along.”

“I knew that you were a lapdog of the Organas—,” he starts.

She laughs, shaking her head. “You have it wrong Dorith,” she says. “I have served the State long before Breha became Queen, or before Bail Organa was Senator. Tell me, Dorith, have you ever heard of the ‘Librarian’?”

He stares at the woman. He slumps. “Yes,” he says in a small voice. He looks away. “It’s the title for the person who serves as the de facto Intelligence service for the Mother.”

She smiles, then reaches out to him. He flinches as she pats his cheek. “Good boy,” she says. 

“I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions. To figure out what your next move is. I would choose wisely. Because the Librarian works hand-in-hand with the Keeper of Rhindon in dealing with threats to the Crown and our world. The idea of anyone working with outside parties to undermine the rule of law should be anathema to any citizen of Alderaan.” She smiles—an expression that looks positively reptilian. “Even those sitting in the Council of Graces, feathering their nests.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Queen Breha sits in another office in the State House. She smiles as she hears the door open and close behind her.

“He’s been informed, Your Majesty,” Dainet says. 

Breha turns around, but gives no indication that she has heard. Dainet remains in a deep bow. After a moment Breha nods, allowing her to rise.

The two women look at one another for several moments. Breha points to the chair opposite her.

“Do you think he’ll choose correctly, Majesty?” Dainet asks. 

Breha lifts a corner of her mouth. “He’s not stupid. Well, maybe a little. He’ll probably find a way to get out of it.”

“Should I turn the information over to the Peacekeepers?”

Breha shakes her head. “No. I think we need calm here after the last few months. As much calm as we can get, before the storm.”

She notices that Dainet doesn’t inquire further about that storm. Breha hardens her look at Dainet. “Now what should I do with my Librarian who conceals the fact that she is the half-sister of an official of another sovereign world? A Librarian who appears to be working with that official without informing the Queen.”

Dainet looks away. Breha looks closer at the woman. Her eyes crinkle in a smile as she sees the resemblance, now that she knows to look for it.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, no one ever asked about my family specifically. As for assisting a foreign government, Draq’ didn’t tell me about what he was doing. He just asked me to be extra vigilant for any threats I could detect. It was the reporter, Jessta Verlaine who put me onto Panteer.”

Breha rolls her eyes. “A reporter whose family news service was bought by Draq’ Bel Iblis’s son before her father died.”

“Yes,” Dainet says. “Your Majesty, I’ll be happy to resign. It’s rare that the sovereign even knows who the Librarian is. I do ask that you not come down too hard on Jessta. She was doing what she thought was right, with a longtime friend and ally.”

“Oh, you’re not getting off that easy, dear. You will serve out the remaining five years on this term as Librarian. We’ll reevaluate then. Next time, tell me that old man Bel Iblis has spread his seed on Alderaan. So I can be on the lookout for other little Dragons.” Both women laugh together. “As for Jessta,” Breha continues, “I have found a suitable punishment. I have offered and she has accepted a job. That way I can keep an eye on her.”

Dainet smiles. “I’m glad. She seems very capable.”

“Yes,” Breha says. Her dark eyes soften as looks out the window. “She has a young daughter. I’ve looked at her records. Shows a lot of promise. I think that I will take her under my wing in a few years, so to speak.”

“Your Majesty, what about Nola?” Dainet asks. “She has paid a heavy price for this, in uncertainty and ignominy. My sources on Naboo say that her family is beside themselves.”

The Queen looks down. “I don’t know. She knew we had something planned, to draw Dorith out. She didn’t know Draq’s part in it, just as we didn’t.”

She is silent, contemplating the neat streets of the capital. Dainet takes the Queen’s hand in hers.

+=+=+=+=+=

Covenant continues to stare out at the chaos destroying matter outside of the viewport. As he always does, a small part of him marvels at the thin line of the hyperdrive field that protects the ship from annihilation. He doesn’t admit it to himself that it calms him. Especially now, with the feelings tearing through him.

The hatch to the cockpit opens. Boge M’Faru walks back in. He places a cup of caf by Covenant’s elbow. He sips his own. Covenant sighs and turns to him as he feels the ex-Peacekeeper glowering at him. 

“You going to stop feeling sorry for yourself, bud?”

“Is this an intervention?” Covenant snarks. 

“Hell no. Just get tired of people on this ship looking out the goddamned window all the time. Seems like Dani is the only one that seems balanced enough to get something done without moping about.”

Covenant’s eyes flash dangerously. Boge doesn’t appear to lose sleep. “She has her moments as well, Boge,” Covenant says quietly. “She just has to be careful or everybody on the ship will feel it.”

M’Faru nods. “Yeah. Felt it a bit when she saw you assholes were coming back. Thought I was going to strain something.”

“Welcome to my life of the last decade or so.”

“So what is it this time, Covenant?”

“What?” 

M’Faru rolls his eyes and taps him on the forehead with a plate-sized hand. Covenant has to fight not to rub the impact area. “Come on. You’re keeping me from dinner.”

Covenant is silent. “You’re blaming yourself for everything, aren’t you?” M’Faru asks, his eyes locked on Covenant’s. 

After a moment, Bryne speaks. “Maybe,” he says tentatively. “But it’s kind of my job. Been that since I was born, for a number of reasons.

“Is one of those a Jedi reason?” M’Faru asks, bluntly. 

Covenant stands. “Goddammit, Boge, you need to…” M’Faru places his hand on Bryne’s chest and shoves. Covenant sits back down, halfway voluntarily. 

“What? Did the Imps suddenly infiltrate us? I think I’ve proven I can be trusted with that. If they capture me, several of them and I aren’t going to have a care in the world within a couple of minutes.”

Bryne looks away. Boge dives in. “You remember what we told you about our ancestry? As Korun, our ancestors were all Force-sensitive. Wild Force-users. Well, it has been diluted since we didn’t have to survive in a world that was trying to eat us. But one thing I do know about Jedi, is that you are either in two camps. One, you’re so goddamned arrogant that you think you know everything and are always right.” He falls silent.

“And the other?”

“You’re so goddamned arrogant that you take the blame for everything that goes tits-up.”

“So which one do we fall into?” comes a clear voice from the hatch. Ahsoka stands there, looking at both of them. Her sharp blue gaze lances the ex-Peacekeeper. 

He stands his ground, but smiles. “Little bit of both, some days,” he replies. He looks down at Covenant. The Corellian and the Togruta are looking at one another.

Ahsoka grins, her eyes still locked on Covenant’s. “You may just be right, big guy,” she says quietly. 

Covenant speaks up. “No, he’s never right. Just keep telling him that and we’ll all get along fine.”

Covenant stands again and pushes past M’Faru. He walks over to Ahsoka. He touches her fingers with his. She wraps his hand in hers in an easy, loose grip. 

M’Faru smiles, but can’t resist getting the last word. “Could you two go down to the cabin? You’re blocking my escape route if you start going at it on the nav-table.”

Ahsoka doesn’t look at him, but says to Covenant. “For such a big, bad, run-blocker, he sure is afraid of barging his way through things.”

“Yeah. Probably another reason he never went pro.” So intent are they on each other, they miss the double gestures to them. Boge eases his reply by touching both of their heads as he walks by and exits the compartment.

“So, Runt. Anything for us to do?”

“Yeah. I think we can find something. I’m not anxious to try the nav-table, though.” She reaches down and kisses him, her tongue moving into his mouth. “Never take the blame for everything, Taliesin Croft,” she says, using his Jedi name. 

“You too, Ahsoka Tano.” He pulls her into his arms. 

She Smirks. “Unless I tell you that you fucked up.”

“Oh, I am sure you will,” he says.

After several moments of existence, she breaks away and slaps him on the ass. “Come on. Let’s go below. I’m pretty sure that Meglann and Dani might already be naked, if I know our sister of the heart.”

“What are we waiting for?”

+=+=+=+=+=

Shyla Merricope gags as she swims towards the surface of her mind. As her eyes snap open, she feels a large hand on her cheek, guiding her face to the right.

Her projectile strikes the small basin dead center. As she finishes with the last of her stomach lining, she glances out of the corner of her eye. Draq’ Bel Iblis continues his light touch of her cheek, then moves it, brushing the unruly lock of hair from her forehead. 

“How long?” she gasps out. 

He smiles tenderly. “ A couple of weeks. You gave us a helluva scare. You still have a long way to go, Madame Diktat. Both of your doctors say you’ve bounced back well, but it’ll be awhile before you regain the full use of your right leg.”

“How’s Dani?” Shyla is amazed that she is able to even rasp these words out.

“She’s fine. She wanted to be here when you woke up, but some things happened that required her to be offworld for a bit,” he replies.

Shyla rests her head back on the pillow as Draq’ picks up a moist rag and wipes her mouth. “Let me guess,” she says, her voice stronger with each passing second, “she went after Delilah.”

Draq’ laughs. “Yeah, but that’s not what caused her to leave. A Falleen named Tera Moj tried to kidnap Jamelyn. Dani stopped her. We felt it best that she go and help Bryne with some things. She took the kids.”

“Were you able to interrogate the Falleen? She’s the sister of the Underlord of Black Sun. Plus she works for Prince Xizor.”

Draq’s eyes flash for a moment. “Well, that’s where it gets interesting. Sal stepped in and killed Moj before we could question her. Then took all the credit, or at least most of it, for saving the Elector-Presumptive.” 

Shyla is quiet for several moments. Draq’ pours her a small glass of water from the pitcher. She drinks it down, then looks up at him. “It was well known that the Hag was in deep with some of the gangs, for favors that they pulled. It was rumored that one of them helped with Jamestyn and his wife’s murders.”

Draq’ purses his thin lips. “Yeah. I know. Somebody supplied the Mandos with the missile that hit their ship.” 

Shyla can see that he is thinking of his brother-in-law and the woman who had brought him peace and love—something that Mailyn Blackthorn—known as the Hag—could never give him.

Nadara Shysa-Blackthorn had also given Corellia something, as well. A strong champion in the form of its Covenant. 

She sees Draq’s expression grow even more troubled. “What else has happened, Draq’?” she asks. 

“We’ve reshaped the government. Delilah has lost her bid to try to get rid of Thomree. I don’t know what happened, but she’ll remain with a new title. Imperial Advisor for Internal Affairs. She’ll oversee CorSec. ISB will have a light presence.”

He stops, pours his own glass of water. 

Shyla’s eyes narrow. “And?” she asks pointedly.

“Shavuot Colum will move to a new position. Imperial Advisor for External Affairs. I know he won’t like it, but we both figured it would be the best way to keep some sort of hand on the tiller.”

Shyla sits up, winces as her right leg flops over. “If he is in charge of External—,” she starts. Her heart sinks with realization.

“Yeah. I’ve resigned as Procurator-Fiscal and External.”

Shyla lies back, her heartrate rising. The Dragon had been in that position off and on for nearly twenty years.

“I’ll remain a part of the Privy Council, as Chair and CEO of the CEC. I’ll guide Shav through economic policy,” he says.

“I serve the Five Brothers,” he whispers. Shyla hears the wistful quality of his voice. She lifts his hand and brings it to her lips. 

“You’ll still be able to do a lot to protect Corellia, Draq’. Chair and CEO of the Corellian Engineering Corporation has a lot of power.”

He nods. “I don’t know. I think that the Empire is ready to undo all that we’ve done to heal our world from the untrammeled industrialization—the shifting of our heavy industry to orbit. All in their desire for more and bigger ImpStars. I think that there are dark times ahead for the Eldest Brother. Corellia is already starting to cry out again. It’ll be worse within five years.” Both fall silent as they contemplate the future. 

“But, I will remain on the Electoral Council, protecting the interests of Jamelyn and Bryne,” he says with a grin. “In addition, Sal unknowingly gave Dani an extra bit of power, just by being ignorant.”

Shyla laughs for the first time. “She Named her, right?” she asks through their laughter. 

“Yep. As the Electarine-Caretaker. She now sits on the Electoral Council. All of the Five Brothers witnessed it. She did it in front of the press.”

“We tried to avoid naming her officially, just because of Sal—to keep Dani off of her sensors. That she did it herself, and can’t take it back, is poetic.”

He sobers. “Dani will remain as Director of Studies and Observation for CEC. She may be our only semblance of an independent intelligence service.”

Shyla nods. “So what about Thomree?”

“I don’t know if this is good or bad,” Draq’ replies. “He is being named as Imperial Viceroy. It replaces the title of Diktat. He will have Moff-rank for the sector.”

“Well, I guess that answers the question about whether he is still in the Emperor’s favor.”

“Yeah. I looked into some of his past, with the help of some uh, unnamed sources. He and a certain Senator from Fondor were very close during the War. At least until the Senator went back to his homeworld. I think that Thomree drew the line at some of the Senator’s dealings with slavers. That might have had something to do with some of the whisperings. May even be tied into something on Alderaan that’s going on.”

Shyla lies back. As her eyes grow heavy, she hears herself ask. “What does this mean for Corellia?”

Draq’ Bel Iblis is silent. For the first time in decades, he doesn’t have a clear answer.

He smiles as he hears one last whisper from the woman as consciousness leaves her. “Tell Dani I—.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Prince Xizor closes down the comm from Thittan. The cleanup operation on Corellia, as well as the ending of at least two rivals—possibly three if the little Uncle could connect Tera to her brother, rather than him.

Xizor lifts the stem of the spice-pipe to his lips. He allows the smoke to fill his lungs. His brain remains alert, even with the euphoric effect of the drug. The particular type of spice, barely causes a ripple in his consciousness.

The strength of one puff of the smoke would be enough to cause a human’s heart to stop. He looks down at the sleeping woman, debates as to whether she would grace his presence again. 

A glance over to his left at the woman’s sleeping brother helps edge his mind to a possible return visit. He doesn’t exhale the smoke in their direction.

A flashing light from his droid catches his attention. His eyes narrow as he listens to the burst-binary. He moves to the foot of the bed and stands. He dips to the ground in rapid succession, allowing his palms to rest on the floor for the space of a breath. He holds his hand out. A floating servitor-droid drops a pure Hypalian ring-silk robe into his hand. 

He looks at his bedmates again. “Please make sure that they are up and taken back to their apartment at 500 Imperia,” he says. “I wouldn’t want their father to worry. Make sure they are fed well,” he adds as an afterthought. _I am sure that the Minister is used to this, he thinks. They are adults, even if they don’t act like it._

Xizor dismisses them from his thoughts as he belts the robe and walks to his audience chamber.

As the doors to the lift open, he watches an older human male, clad in a scarlet version of the Imperial service uniform, turn from his contemplation of the priceless fire-painting over the mantle.

“Director Isard,” Xizor says. “Do you have news for me?”

Isard allows a moment of irritation to flit across his bland features. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “Welcome to Coruscant, Prince Xizor,” he says formally, instead of answering the question. “You seem to have done well for your residence here. I wasn’t aware that this palace was on the market.”

Xizor permits the sharp teeth to show in his smile of response. “The previous owner found themselves in a financial bind. My agent was able to convince xir to sell.” The smile grows even more predatory. “How is your lovely daughter, Ysanne, is it?” Xizor asks, changing the subject.

Isard’s eyes narrow. “Don’t think that I don’t know what you are doing, Xizor,” he says. “You may think that I dance to your tune, just because you think you were able to help get me the Directorship of Republic Intelligence; but you might want to think about threatening me or my family.”

Xizor shakes his head. “My dear Director, I was merely asking about your family. I might be offended if you thought otherwise.”

Isard continues to stare at Xizor. Finally, he relaxes, and sits on the proffered couch.

After the rituals of Falleen breakfast-wine are followed, Isard finally speaks. “A bit of news. I have a new title and new responsibilities from the Emperor. In addition to being Minister of State Security, I’m now the Grand Moff of the entire Core, junior only to Tarkin. As such, I may be able to get you that audience with the Emperor. He is most interested in some of your projects, Prince.”

Xizor takes this in, sipping his wine. “That is good news. That might help me further at least one of the projects that I was working on in a roundabout fashion.”

Isard smiles—an expression that holds little warmth. “Yes. We had to do a bit of cleanup on your behalf on your ‘project’. We managed to deflect all blame from you. The Corellians, even now, aren’t sure who attacked the ex-Diktat. They may find out that it was not your asset, if she ever was one—Moj’s sister.”

Xizor’s crest flares, then settles. “Yes. It worked out for you. Thomree is your creature, is he not?”

“He is an asset, and a valued one at that. Panteer’s clumsy attempts with his whispering campaign did no good in the end,” Isard replies.

“Perhaps,” the Falleen says. “But I would thank you to not discount the good Councilor, nor sanction him. He might still be of some use to us.”

“You might be right. Anyhow, Corellia is settled down. Bel Iblis is out of the government, which was the whole aim. He still has a great deal of influence, however, but he’s also an effective businessman.”

Xizor merely nods. “I will say this only one time, Isard. Don’t ever harm one of my assets, or try to frame them again, without my express permission. It worked out where my agent was able to contain the damage, but it might not next time.”

“Don’t threaten me, Xizor. I am not one of your spice-slingers. I am—,”

Xizor holds his hand up. “You’re a third-rate spy who got a bit of notoriety with a fourth-rate holovid—one that angered his bosses because he lost his ability to be a spy. Tell me, _Grand Moff_ , what do you think that thousands of impressionable young adults would think if they knew that _Isard of the Judicials_ was a fraud?”

Isard laughs. “Don’t rightly care. I’m still cashing the royalty checks from that idiocy.” He nods. “You’ve made your point, if not clumsily, Xizor. But remember that there are other bottom feeders in the sewers of the galaxy that the Empire can deal with.”

He stands. One quick nod and he is gone.

Xizor holds his glass out to the servitor. He watches the exit that the Imperial had taken.

It might be time for him to reconnect with the Hutts.


	20. The Path Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It sounded as if the Streets were running  
> And then - the Streets stood still -  
> Eclipse - was all we could see at the Window  
> And Awe - was all we could feel.
> 
> By and by - the boldest stole out of his Covert  
> To see if Time was there -  
> Nature was in an Opal Apron,  
> Mixing fresher Air. 
> 
> Emily Dickinson

Nola watches as Boba brings _Slave-1_ smoothly out of hyperspace. She knows that he usually wears his bucket while flying, but had set it down on the console when they had started out from Ganthel. Both had been mostly silent in the hours of travel, each lost in thought about their pasts and their futures. 

She starts as she realizes that he is looking at her. She turns her face away towards the stars, closes her eyes.

Her eyes snap open as she feels Boba touch her face. His hand flies back to the console, as if burned. 

Nola grins and takes the hand in one of her cuffed ones, begins to rub her thumb and forefinger over his calloused palms. As she does, she eyes the faint, thin scar on her left palm—a scar that bisects the fortune-reading lines of Naboo lore from her wrist to the space between her middle and ring fingers.

The sign of an Oath taken over a half-decade before, to protect and serve the elected Queen of her world. To give her life if necessary. She closes her eyes as she remembers—remembers the same scar on several other young women’s palms. Scars just visible on their bound hands as they lay dead on the marble of the Audience Room. Along with the Queen that she had failed to protect. A Queen and a world that she had failed in her Oath. 

At least most of her oath. She chokes as she remembers the last part of the oath. _I exist to bear witness._

She opens her eyes as she feels Boba’s fingers play over the scar.

A grin plays over his face. She had never seen that expression on his guarded features. Her heart clinches as she realizes she may be very privileged. Just as quickly it is gone.

“You get out of Brick City, Vorserrie, look me up. I can always use a good human shield. Keeps my armor from getting dented,” he says dryly.

“Maybe if you were quicker, you might not get your pretty armor dented,” she replies in the same tone.

He looks away after a moment of shared laughter. “I’m only going to say this, once, Nola,” he starts. He falls silent, as if searching for words. “Nobody has ever put themselves in front of a blaster bolt for me before. I can’t figure out why you did it. I’m somebody that killed two cops and almost did for your friend. Why would you do that? Why would anyone do that?”

She smiles, then looks away. “I don’t know, Boba.” She brings her dark eyes back to his. “Maybe it’s just who I am.” She touches the Oath-scar. She closes her eyes again, willing the tears to go elsewhere. “Maybe I just tripped trying to get out of the way. People tell me I’m pretty awkward and clumsy.”

She can feel the eyeroll even with her eyes closed.

“I kind of doubt that,” he says. “I think that you’re just an incurable do-gooder.”

“Maybe,” she says. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I could ever do that for anyone, without getting paid for it. But maybe it’s good to know that there are people who will.”

Her eyes prickle with tears again. She sees a large shape move across her vision behind her eyelids. She opens her eyes, takes a deep breath.

The _Tantive III_ slows to crawl from its re-entry from hyperspace. The two ships dock

She stands, as does Boba. Without a word, she hands him the binders that she has removed while they were talking and turns and walks towards the airlock. She feels the ghost of a grin between her shoulder blades once more.

She stops at the hatch. They stare at one another for a good long moment. 

“Try not to get any bounties on you again, Vorserrie,” he says.

She grins. “No guarantees. Try not to be too slow on the draw, Fett,” she replies.

He turns to leave and raises his helmet to his head. Before he pulls it down, Nola seizes his wrists. She pulls the helmet down and draws him into her arms.

She feels his surprise as her lips touch his. She sees his eyes close as she finishes the kiss.

Nola turns and exits the ship, wondering if she will see him again, and if she does, will they be looking at each other over blaster-barrels.

She shakes the thought away. Her eyes widen as she boards the Alderaanian ship. Three young women, one older than the other two, gaze at her without expression, dressed in the rainbow mantles of Alderaan’s Handmaidens.

The youngest, a woman with crimson skin, can’t hold the lack of expression. A wide smile breaks out on her face.

Sabe’ and Tika remain solemn. They gesture behind them.

Nola walks to face her future.

+=+=+=+=+=

Draq’ Bel Iblis watches as Corel crosses the terminator, spreading golden light over the orbital dockyards. He brings the crystal of the whisky tumbler to his lips downing the three fingers in one swallow. His piercing blue eyes track towards the #72 graving yard at the finishing touches on yet another Corellian _Imperial II_ stardestroyer. 

He closes them as he ponders how they will move forward. How he will move forward, with the cords torn from a position that he has held for decades—a position from which he has manipulated, defended, retreated, and charged; whatever was needed to defend a world that given him a place, a home in the universe. Along with skills that the world and its brothers needed. He, the orphaned son of a smuggler—cast out from his mother’s family when she died and after his father had already abandoned him.

He slams the glass down, shattering it. He ignores the cuts on his hand. He takes a deep shuddering breath as he realizes that once again, he is uncertain. As uncertain as he has been in his life. 

The door behind him cycles open. He takes a deep breath, composing himself as a wave of pure love moves through his body. He turns, painting a smile on his face. A smile that he does not feel, except for that warmth and the young woman moving towards him. 

_“Abeeyah_ ,” Dani says, pulling into his arms. He grins as her charcoal and blue hair barely grazes his breast bone. _Right at his heart. Where she has always been_.

“Daaineran’ _na’gere_ ,” he whispers. _My heart_. He feels a smile crease her lips against his shirt front. 

“Shyla told me,” she says quietly. Her tears dot his clothing now. 

“It’s okay, my love,” he says soothingly, his hand rubbing over her back. “I’d ask why you were back, but I am glad that you are.”

“What will we do?” she asks. 

He grins, leaning his face to her hair. He breathes in the fragrance. “What we’ve always done. We’ve always survived. One avenue closes, we’ll sniff around and gamble on another. It’s our way.” He reaches down, touching both of her cheeks and raising her face up. He brings his lips to her forehead. 

Dani looks into his eyes after a moment. “We still have the House under our control. That’s our intelligence service, even if it isn’t official. We still have Bryne. You have at least some control over the economy, even if you’re not Procurator. CEC is the Corellian economy.”

He laughs. “I’m damned glad that you got your mother’s brains,” he says. He closes his eyes at the increasing warmth and joy of her resonance.

“Guess I got your looks,” she says.

“You know it,” he says. Their laughter rises together.

He sobers. “Dani, you need to go see your daughter. Go see Shyla. She has someone she wants you to meet,” he says. “When you get through, come back. I have to tell you something. It’s going to require a lot of trust in me.”

He can see her eyes grow troubled. He closes his and pulls her tighter to his chest. To his heart.

Both of them think about the trust that they have forged.

+=+=+=+=+=

Several hours later, Dani lies in the medcenter bed, Shyla’s head pillowed on her arm. She strokes the dark hair. Her eyes sadden as she sees a few more streaks of gray in the dark bob as her fingers move through it. She sees Shyla’s eyes lighten as Jamelyn charges through the door, sliding to a stop just before the bed. Dani smiles as she sees the beginning of tears in the Elector-Presumptive’s eyes. 

Talle, her new friend, whose features make Dani’s heart twist in their familiarity, stands at the door, hesitant. Dani smiles and beckons her in.

Shyla pats the other side of the bed. “Come on, your Grace,” she says. “I won’t break. 

Jamelyn grins and walks around. She climbs up and is immediately engulfed in Shyla’s arms.

Shyla looks over at Dani. “This will help me more than anything these damned quacks can do,” she says. She looks at the door behind Talle.

A tall girl of about fifteen stands in the door. Dani starts at the resemblance to the woman in her arms. Shyla gestures for the the newcomer to enter. 

“Dani,” her lover says, “this is my daughter. Lexa.”

Dani’s eyes widen. “I—,” she starts.

Shyla grins as she stumbles over her words. “Yeah, I know. Nobody knew, except maybe your father.” She reaches over and kisses Dani. “She might be the way we get into Thomree’s head.” Dani sees an absolutely evil look. “We’ll also be able to get into the head of a certain Alderaani who suddenly seems to be exploring opportunities in our business world.” She looks away. “Maybe we can turn a couple of my mistakes in judgement into gold.” Her eyes tear as she looks at Lexa. “Something that she has always done for me.”

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann sits in a comfortable chair in a well-paneled library. Her heart beats rapidly as she thinks of this approaching interview. An interview that will decide her future. A future that she has already chosen, but with a pathway uncertain. She looks down as she remembers Ahsoka’s words before she had boarded the aircar with the blue and silver House Organa livery. 

“I’ll be here when you get back, Meglann,” she had said. Meglann’s lips had tingled with her kiss. “Once you decide, Bryne and I will take you and Fit to Zeltros for a couple of weeks, when he gets here. You both deserve some rest.”

She smiles at the healing and rest that had started with Ahsoka, Bryne, and Dani before she had left for Corellia. Her eyes tear as she remembers Murta Locke waking up and looking up into her eyes. An instant before she pulled him to her, whispering in his ears as he tried to repeat over and over in hers. _I’m sorry._

She had silenced him with her fingers on his lips. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she had whispered into the mass of long hair covering his ears.

Meglann hears the door open. She stands as Bail Organa walks in. The heart of this world as much as his beloved Queen. She bows deeply. He smiles and waves his hand, gesturing her back to her seat. Organa sits across from her at the table. She fights to slow her breathing as he gazes at her. 

After a moment, he nods. “How’re you feeling, Ms. Florlin?” he asks. 

“I’m fine, Senator,” she says. 

His smile warms even more. “I’ll be more apt to believe you after you speak with Dani Faygan.” He looks away. “I have it on good authority from someone that I mostly trust that she is a good listener.”

Meglann looks down, fighting back her tears. Bail reaches across the table as he pulls a linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently holds it to her nose before the sobs begin. The simple, loving gesture helps her fight the sobs off as she blows.

When she looks up again, she takes the handkerchief from him, folds it and grips it tightly in her lap. “I’m fine, sir. Really.”

After another moment, she looks directly into his eyes. “I am fine,” she whispers again. 

Bail breathes out. “Alright. I will accept that for now. Let’s discuss your future.” He opens his datapad. “I know that Ahsoka discussed an option with you. The repairs are almost finished on your diner. You can start a semblance of your old life again.”

He lets this sink in before continuing. “Another option is that we offer you a position with the Royal Household. You can assist Flori. Leia likes you. She would probably love to have another companion.”

Meglann tries not to let him see that she can’t choose either one. No matter the kindness with which they were offered.

She looks into his dark eyes again. He nods.

“I think you want another option.” He sighs. “I, like Ahsoka, wish that you didn’t have to do this.” He looks down at his datapad. He grins. “You had quite the journey at the University. I think that the only major you didn’t try was Drama.”

Meglann has the sense to look sheepish. 

He holds his hand up. “No. There is nothing to be ashamed about, Meglann. You worked hard and excelled at most everything that you tried; it just seemed like you couldn’t decide on a path.” He grins as the door opens again. Two serious looking men, dressed in slightly different uniforms, step in. 

Her eyes widen with recognition at one of them. She rises. Bail acknowledges them with a nod. “You know Colonel Rieekan from your military science studies. He is now our Provisional Colonel-in-Chief—our de facto General.” He turns back to Meglann. “He’s always been keeping an eye on promising students.”

Carlist Rieekan surveys her. “As much as I hate to admit it, Florlin, you were among my most promising. Just wish you’d kept with it.”

Bail gestures to the other officer. “Your aptitude scores showed you were very promising as a pilot, Meglann. This is Captain Raymus Antilles. He commands my personal ship, the _Tantive IV_. He is also Captain-General of our naval defense forces—an Admiral in everything but name.” The officer nods to her.

She turns as Rieekan speaks up. “As much chaos as I think that you could bring as a soldier, Florlin, I think that you’ll be needed as a pilot.” He grins. “But I think that we’ll need even squids with a propensity for some of the chaos you learned in my classes.” 

She is still, her eyes wide. “What does this mean?” she manages.

“It means, Meglann,” Bail Organa says, “that you are about to finish your degree in Defense Studies and Psychology.” An irrepressible grin splits his features. “You’re just going to finish it on the job.”

He slides a piece of metal towards her. She picks it up. A silvered square, with a single object in the middle. A small disk with red edging just visible around the blue center. “Your uncle gave that to the Queen. Your mother wore it only briefly when she was doing her conversion training from the Judicials to our defense forces.”

Meglann stares at it, then looks at the three men. She straightens, her hands slightly clinched along her trouser seams. She bows to them, then checks herself. She starts to salute, as she had been taught. The two officers hold up their hands. 

“No, Florlin,” Rieekan says. “You’re a navy puke, now. You can’t salute without a hat.”

All three men laugh at the rueful grin. Bail checks his chronometer. “I have another call. Someone else I owe a new beginning to.” He shakes Meglann’s hand. “There’s someone here to see you, Ensign,” he says.

The three men exit, revealing another at the door. Within a half-second, she is in her uncle’s arms, as he pulls her in tightly. “Hey, Scamp,” he says, “I missed you.”

His own tears dot her jacket. “Your mother would be so proud of you,” he whispers. They pull apart. He reaches down and picks up the rank plaque. He holds it, looking at it for a brief moment. He lifts it and pins it to the right shoulder of her jacket. He pats it, then steps back and dips his head in a bow. She pulls him into her arms again. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. But I found that I didn’t have to look very far for my true father,” she says, kissing his cheek.

He smiles and pulls out a piece of holoflimsi. She takes it from him. It is another likeness of the holo that had started her on her quest. She sees Secor, looking at her mother’s smiling face. She notices something new. 

Her mother is not looking at Secor. She looks slightly at the other officer.

She sees the handwritten legend on the other officer’s chest.

Dalist Florlin-Helt holds her tightly. He thinks of the two letters in his inside coat pocket. Letters sealed; letters he had never read. Letters that he could never bring himself to read, or even share with Meglann. He nods to himself.

_It’s time._

+=+=+=+=+=

Draq’ turns as the door opens again. He smiles as warmly as he had when Dani had walked in. He nods at the small being, the blue-green crest over his human features flaring between his colors. The blue-gray eyes gaze at Draq’ with amusement, as well as something else.

A smile creases Thittan’s features as well.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” Draq’ asks.

“No. Xizor knows I’m on Corellia, but he thinks I’m meeting with our ‘asset.”

Draq’ rolls his eyes. “Try not to catch anything from the lovely Delilah.”

Thittan laughs. “No. Even though I have the pheremones to a certain degree, I do have some taste, Draq’.”

“Well, you do have Levon Bel Iblis’s genetic propensity for fucking anything that had a pulse,” Draq’ says. “Same as I do, I just got cultured.” This last is said in an exaggerated drawl. 

“Yes, but our father’s proclivities did allow you to build quite the intelligence universe,” Thittan replies.

“Don’t remind me. I still think that there are more of our brothers and sisters out there. Waiting to join the fight.” Draq’ looks down. “I don’t know if I want to keep this charade up,” he says quietly. “Of all of us, you have the biggest exposure to risk.”

“I know, Dragon. But it is my choice.” Thittan smiles. “Besides. You and our world have their very own master criminal. A master criminal who has never actually even committed a crime on his own.”

Draq’ laughs. “I’m going to owe some people a lot of explanations. Although their anger may be tempered by the fact that we have managed to get the Empire to take out two rival criminal elements, as well as getting potential enemies of peace on two worlds to overextend themselves.”

Thittan grins up at his younger brother. “Well, I think that your slicer might have sprained something on the Alderaan job.”

“Yeah. I am probably going to owe Bail and Breha some very old whisky for that one. Plus, I will probably be bringing someone on to work for me. Someone who is probably a bigger pain in the ass than all of my current ones put together.”

“I think that I might have met her. Prince Xizor wanted to hire her. The old bastard actually seemed impressed. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that she might have been about to get in the tub with him.”

Draq’ shakes his head, closing his eyes. “Some days, I would say he could have her, at least as an employee,” he replies. He sobers. “Do you think he suspects you?”

Thittan is quiet for a moment. “No,” he finally replies. “Not yet. And don’t worry. I would never have let him harm her.”

“I know that you never would, brother,” Draq’ says. He walks over to Thittan, kneels and embraces him tightly. “I don’t want you to take unnecessary risks, yourself.”

“I know. Who would look after you, pup?” he asks with a sly grin.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Draq’ says. “I’m sixty-two years old. I think I can take care of myself.”

“You’re just a kid. Speaking of kids, are you going to tell Dani about her half-Falleen uncle? I really don’t have the hatred of my mother’s species for hers.”

Draq’ smiles softly. “I probably will. It won’t matter to her. Bryne calls her the most loving person in the universe. I think he may be right in that.”

Thittan nods. “Your Covenant. He still has a bit of growing to do, but you can be proud of him, as well. He will fight for our world, and his loved ones. I watched his concern for his crew and that young Naboo. That girl from Alderaan.”

Draq’s eyes prickle with emotion. “I know. I’m proud of them all,” he says. He shakes his head; checks his chronometer. “I have to be on a call, Mal. Take care and may the Force be with you.”

The two sons of a Corellian ex-slave—a footloose smuggler who had apparently spread his children all over the galaxy, embrace once again. The tallest, one of two of those children from two different women on Corellia, stands and looks at the other—the product of that slave and his master’s daughter of an ancient house of Falleen.

Malaky Thittan turns and walks away from his brother. As he always does, he wonders if he will ever be able to walk freely on the world of his choosing, with his own name. A name now associated with a criminal mastermind. A world that his father, for all of his faults, loved with all of his heart. 

+=+=+=+=+=

Nola stops before the plain hatch. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. Her mind’s eye locks on the face of a laughing Togruta, something she sees much more now. She brushes away the tears forming behind her lids. One more deep breath and she opens them.

Breha Organa stands in the door, looking at her curiously. Without a word, Breha takes her arm gently and pulls her into the compartment. As the door closes, Breha pulls her into her arms for several moments. Nola rests her chin on the Queen’s dark hair.

Breha pulls away, taking her hand and moving towards the small bench seat near the viewport. In spite of the warmth of the Queen’s greeting, Nola is ill at ease. She sits stiffly—closed off. Breha shakes her head and pulls closer to her on the bench.

“So, am I about to go to jail?” Nola asks.

Breha starts, then rolls her eyes. “Are you out of your mind, No-no?” she asks. “Bail told you that you had to be prepared to jump off of a cliff. We did think that you knew that we would be there to catch you.” One side of her lip quirks up. “We just didn’t think that the cliff was going to be that high.”

Nola’s heart flips at the words. It falls slightly as she thinks of her path. The path she is ready to take. She paints a smile on her face, then allows it to fade as she thinks of the twists and turns.

“Your Majesty, I don’t think that I can continue working as your Hand of the Queen. I don’t know what led you to give me that honor, nor do I know why Senator Organa chose me to be his Representative in the Senate.”

Breha is silent for a moment. 

Nola forges ahead. “I want to fight. I think that my dead call me to continue the fight. I just don’t think I can do it in the government.” She notices that her breathing is coming faster. She fights to slow the breaths, as well as her heart. In spite of her efforts, a sob escapes. 

Breha touches her cheek, brushes the single tear away. The Queen looks down. “I don’t know why we chose you either, Nola. We knew that you were reeling from your losses—your fellow Handmaidens and your Queen. Your child. You were young. It felt like to us that you had lost purpose. We felt like a job as the Representative would give you that purpose, as well as cover for what we really wanted you to do. To help Ahsoka. To be her handler.” She laughs gently. “That was a helluva mix. Like two different parts of an explosive compound.”

In spite of her fear—her sadness, Nola laughs as well.

Breha sobers. “I think we expected too much of you. We knew how your losses had torn you apart. We should have known how hard it was for you to watch Ahsoka taking the risks that she could. I know how much you struggled with the idea of sending her to her death.”

Nola starts to protest, but stops as Breha puts her fingers over her lips. “We should have told you early on. You wouldn’t be the one sending her to her death.”

“I would,” comes a deep voice. A holoprojection of Bail Organa opens next to them. “I would be the only one that would have to send her to her death. I know now that I shouldn’t have put someone in between us.”

“Senator, I—,” Nola starts. 

It is his turn to hold up his hand. “Nola, please let me finish. You did well at both jobs that you had. Maybe it was luck, maybe a bit of skill. But I put a burden on you that you shouldn’t have had to carry. You’re only twenty years old. I know that the Naboo believe that young women are able to make decisions that are clear and without cynicism. It is why they elected Padme and Neyutnee.” His face darkens for a moment. “Apailana as well.”

For an instant the memory of a brightly laughing young face flows to Nola’s mind. She realizes that Bail has continued and focuses her attention.

“—indeed it’s the theory behind the Handmaidens of Naboo. You were chosen for that after a lot of testing. You weren’t from the political class that usually applied, but you showed to those examiners what you could do—especially on Z’ambique and what you went through there during the war.”

He stops. He and Breha share a brief look. 

“Somebody said that you would probably never be Queen. But that you would stand behind and if need be, in front of her. I think that you proved it with Ahsoka. Even when we gave you an instruction that went against every idea of care for Ahsoka and Covenant—two people who are dear to you,” Breha says.

Bail smiles. “I wish I was there with you right now.” His image looks down. “I should’ve accepted your resignation. I wanted to, but something stopped me.” The smile transforms, slightly. “Not just my Queen’s insistence.”

Nola considers this. “Then why did you make me the Hand?” she asks as she turns to Breha.

Breha smiles. “To protect you, and give you more authority to make our movement whole.” Her smile turns into a grin. “I’ve never needed a Hand to be my face and voice. I think I got along well enough without one, with just my boloball player and me.”

Nola looks at her, a question in her eyes. “Protection from what?” she says, an edge to her voice. 

Breha looks at Bail’s image. “Protection from Dorith Panteer. After you rejected him so completely, he was making inquiries about your life before Alderaan.” She brings Nola’s forehead to hers. “You had no protection from him. You were a refugee, even in the service of Alderaan. You had not completed the amount of service necessary for citizenship as a government employee. He could’ve caused a great deal of trouble for you and for us, if he had dug deeper into Naboo, especially with his Imperial leanings.” She smiles softly. “You are not the only one who has rejected him,” the Queen says.

Nola doesn’t rise to the last sentence, but nods, understanding. “That style that everybody gave me as Hand. ‘Your Grace’. That was more than just an honorific,” she says. 

“Yes. It was a rank. We made you the same rank as he was. He couldn’t touch you without going before the Council of Graces. We couldn’t grant you citizenship, but it gave you more protections.” Breha smiles again, lifts her forehead from Nola’s. “Since you have been gone, M’Faru’s investigation found no evidence of corruption. Apparently the decimal point was wrong on the amount of money that actually went into your account.” The smile turns devilish. “At least for an instant—long enough to trip Customs and Excise, as well as Panteer’s sensors. It was only twenty thousand that went in.”

Nola sits back. She shakes her head. “The Bantith Speederbike Race. I got fourth place. Highest I ever finished. The third place winner got popped for an illegal supercharger. I guess I moved up and got that purse.” She giggles. “That means I actually got something more than a participation trophy.”

She sees Breha out of the corner of her eye, wiping away a tear. Bail sees as well, gives her a moment. 

“Since there is no evidence of corruption, you are hereby reinstated as Hand and Representative.” He grins. “We will accept your resignation in good standing. You’ll keep the protections of your rank as Hand-Emeritus.” His handsome features sober. “But, you might not be on Alderaan that much.”

Nola takes a deep breath. “I understand. I’m assuming that you have something in mind for me? Something with the Corellians?” She grins. “Already got a cute codename that I can barely pronounce.” Her eyes narrow. “How did that two million credit mistake get into my account?”

Another blue light flickers. The craggy features of Draq’ Bel Iblis stare at her. Her eyes widen, then narrow, as she realizes that there is a vaguely sheepish look on his face, something she has never seen before.

“You son of a bitch,” she says.

+=+=+=+=+=

The operative known as Myriddin looks out over the assembled droid ships. The powerful vessels, once the vanguard of the feared Separatist Navy, are next to useless without the droids that had made up their crews. She had barely been able to link the ships together to get them into hyperspace. They might only be useful as either flying bombs or as bases.

The holocomm activates. The young woman turns, her hooded and cowled features expressionless. “Hello, Myriddin,” the modulated voice says. 

“Katana,” she replies quietly.

“Are the heavies secure?” Katana asks.

“Yes, they are. We are deep enough in the Unknown Regions to hide them. I was careful to mask their trail.”

The figure nods, a broad smile on what little she can see of his—a guess on her part—face. “I knew you would. As soon as they’re secure, we’ll start on the next phase. I know that Bail and his group are starting to look at acquisition. They may have a lead on the same thing we’re tracking.”

“Your fleet? The Katanas?” she asks. 

“Yes. At least I’ve managed to acquire the key. We may make ourselves indispensable to a larger rebellion. It may give us a say in the direction. Might even be able to move faster.”

“I’m not so sure how comfortable I am with this,” Myriddin says. “I think you should stop this antagonism to Mothma and the others.”

The smile disappears. “Just do as you’re asked. I’m recruiting someone who might be able to help us with Imperial procedures, especially ISB.” He nods. “Or at least I’m recruiting his lover, as well as his lover’s Mando assistant.”

Myriddin nods after a moment. She is silent as Katana ends the transmission.

She pulls her hood and cowl down, revealing a bronzed face with dark eyes and gray-streaked hair. Small lines of pain and loss mark her face around her mouth. She hears a noise behind her—a noise that brings a wide smile to her face.

Elle Jaquindo turns. A little girl runs into the main compartment, an ever-present stuffed bantha—a bantha that has an old stuffed tooka head sewn on it, giving it a slightly demented look. Her smile grows tender as she thinks of that young Togruta woman who had made the toy for her daughter. 

Elle hopes that she is alive. She is sure that Ahsoka Tano is still in the fight. Her smile fades as she wonders if what she is trying to do with Katana might bring more harm to the galaxy than good. 

Faith rushes over to her and hugs her around the waist. All thoughts of competing visions for a free galaxy fade as she laughs and reaches down to kiss her daughter. Her heart twists as she sees the hint of the girl’s father in her laughter.

Elle closes her eyes and sends a silent prayer to the deities of her birthworld for clones and Jedi.

Those who need them the most these days.

**New Path for Elder Family Head  
** **Dateline: Aldera  
** **In the Year of our Emperor, 5:6**

His Grace, Dorith Panteer, Head of the Elder House of Panteer, recently left Alderaan to pursue business interests on Corellia. Lord Panteer also stepped down as the Head, in favor of his fourteen year old niece, Gela.

Panteer, who is also a former Senator from Fondor, will return to a more active role on the Board of Directors for Blastech, Inc. Blastech is the primary supplier of blaster weapons for our glorious Empire. He had last held this active role fifteen years ago.

When asked about the new path, Panteer would only say, “It was time for a change. I trust that my niece will be placed in a better position than I, as a fresh voice to watch over our beloved Alderaan, from threats both internal and external.”

Panteer was the head of the Oversight Committee of the Council of Graces. House Panteer was often seen as a rival to the Organa-Antilles faction for the Candlewick Throne. He was a frequent critic of Queen Breha’s policies on refugees.

When asked for comment, newly appointed Minister of Public Information, Jessta Verlaine said, “We wish his Grace well in his new endeavors.”

In related news, Lord Panteer recently donated two million Imperial credits to the Crowneshield Foundation for Refugee Relief, a charity sponsored by the Covenant of Corellia, in the name of the Elector-Presumptive, Her Majesty the Queen of Alderaan, and the Conyl-Regent of Ganthel. The monies will be used to acquire ships to help evacuate refugees, according to the Foundation.

_From Pool Reports_

________________

**Former Government Official Wins Race  
** **Dateline: Ganthel  
** **In the Year of Our Emperor, 5:6**

Her Grace, Nola Vorserrie, Hand-Emeritus for the Queen of Alderaan, recently defeated a broad field to take the Conyl’s trophy in the Ganthel Invitational Speederbike Race. Vorserrie, who has been competing for about four years, won her first race in twenty-four attempts.

She recently resigned as Hand, taking a position in the private sector as head of the Alderaan office of the Corellian Engineering Corporation. It has been revealed that she had recently entered Officer Selection Training for the Alderaan Reserve Defense Forces.

Sloane Conlyn, current Senator of Ganthel, was on hand to present the trophy. Lady Vorserrie immediately announced her retirement from active racing.

________________

**From the _Coronet City Tattler_  
** **Covenant of Corellia Steps Out with Unknown Beauty  
** **In the Year of Our Emperor, 5:6**

His Eminence, Bryne, Covenant of Corellia was recently spotted vacationing on Zeltros with an unknown young woman, suspected to be from Alderaan. The happy couple was seen on the beaches of the Mainsea, as guests of the elected Monarch of Zeltros and his bond-family.

It is unknown how any of the several other women he has been seen with felt about the newcomer. This group includes a government official on Alderaan, the former Diktat of Corellia, and possibly the Imperial Advisor for Internal Affairs on Corellia.

They were accompanied by an unknown Togruta servant.

_Reporter P. Ano contributed to this report._

________________

_“Phygus, you little shit! A servant? Really?”_

**CORRECTION:**

The Covenant of Corellia and his entourage recently attended a spiritual, meditative retreat with the elected Monarch of Zeltros and his family. The Electarine-Caretaker of Corellia had no comment on their private lives.

________________

_“Entourage? You have an entourage, Bait?”_

**Five Years and Six Months since the Fall of the Republic**  
**Zeltros**

Bryne Covenant smiles as he watches the two young women bounce the ball between them and the two young men. He hears Ahsoka’s indrawn breath at the sight. All four are clad in what passes for beach wear on this beautiful world. Which is to say, not much. 

Bryne looks down at himself ruefully. He wears the same light garment, a brief wrap—just enough to keep certain sensitive areas protected from the bright sun. He looks over at the young woman lying next to him. As always, her brilliant blue eyes cut through to his heart. 

Bryne grins. The blue eyes cut through him even from under the ridiculous broad-brimmed, high crowned straw hat that she wears to protect her more-sensitive lekku and montrals from prolonged exposure to the Zeltron sun, at least on the open beach. The shade of the hat and the sunshades now down on her nose help conceal her identity, as well; though this is one world that she might not have to bother. 

Conquerors don’t do well on Zeltros. They tend to join the bright, joyous people in their celebrations, as witnessed a few months ago when an Imperial moff had tried to wrest a secret from this world.

“Wipe that grin off of your face, gramps,” she says, a lower wattage smirk splitting her features. She reaches over to him and kisses him to soften her words. They both turn towards the laughter near the water’s edge.

Meglann’s laughter can be heard above her companions’. Her broad grin as she dives to return the ball, sliding in the sand, doesn’t dim. One of her opponents, a blue-skinned Twi’lek with names from two worlds, helps her up. 

Bryne turns to Ahsoka. He sees that she has returned her sunshades over her eyes from where they had rested on her nose. He can tell that she is not looking at him, but downwards.

He touches her cheek. It is his turn to move his face to hers. He kisses her on her lips, then moves to her nose.

“She’ll be okay, Runt,” he whispers. “She is strong, and she’s chosen her path. All we can do is support her and let her learn. Let her grow.” He rests his forehead on hers. “She has your example,” he finishes. 

“I know, Bait,” she replies. He gasps as he feels her breath against his throat, just before her lips follow. “She has the right to fight with us. Bail thinks that she will be asset after some training, especially with either you and your Hells, or with Tamsin and Chi Hern.” She grins. “Maybe even a ‘semester’ in the Rim, with Lassa.”

“She’ll learn a lot from us all,” he says.

“Yeah. Some of it she might actually have to forget when she comes home to Alderaan. Might get her put in jail,” she says against his skin.

“Don’t worry. We’re not going to teach her littering,” he says with an eyeroll. 

“Yeah. Doesn’t your Generalship still have an outstanding warrant for that?” she says.

“Don’t remind me,” he says as his fingers ghost over her navel. 

Their struggles are brief as she manages to roll on top of him, straddling his middle. She pins his wrists above his head. He hears the laughter of their companions in the small pavilion. He looks up at Ahsoka, his breath catching as he realizes that the hat has fallen off. 

He also notices that her breathing has increased. He knows both can feel the resonances from the Torstan family—the family of the _Zoetarch_ , the elected leader.

“Uh, Runt. You’re about to draw a crowd,” he says. His concern does not stop him from giving a brief jerk of his hips.

She kisses him, then moves back to his side on the blanket that they share. She pillows her head on his chest, her fingers move idly through the hair.. Her expression is one of promise. Bryne would swear on any Force artifact that was presented to him that he could feel disappointment from the surrounding blankets. Ahsoka giggles at the thought.

He looks down. “I’m taking Meglann to Corellia in a couple of weeks,” he says quietly. “I want her to see another world that she may have to fight for. Especially one that her grandmother apparently lives on.”

She moves to her side, pulling closer to him. “I know. I wish I could go with you, your Eminence,” she says with a smile. The smile fades. “I have something I have to do, _ie,_ ” she finishes.

“The Alchernon Pass?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Nola has managed to get the Conyl-Regent to cede use of it to hide whatever ships we can find. I am going to make sure that those five clanker ships are safe there.” She grins. “Second Lieutenant Vorserrie will be making the trip with me.”

He laughs. “Don’t you mean the head of the Alderaani office of CEC? Or the Operations Manager of the Crowneshield Foundation for Refugees? She’s got a lot of business cards and made-up titles.”

She joins him then gives a wistful smile. “I think that the first title is the one that she is most proud of,” she says. “The one that Bail appointed her to—just like anyone starting over.” Her smile grows. “Another seven years’ service and she’ll be a citizen of Alderaan, as well as Naboo.”

He nods. “Aren’t we kind of starting over? Again, Ahsoka?” he asks.

“Might just be, Bryne.” She gives him a look that he can’t immediately decipher. “I’m glad that I’ve got my Rangers behind me,” she says. 

He smiles at the now-defunct title from his world. One that has meaning from the past—the descendant title of the Companions of the Covenant. “Always, Fulcrum.”

A burst of bright laughter comes from the shore, as Meglann’s teammate, Ereenalynaan Torstan, called Ereena, misses a crucial block of the ball. There is only slight crowing by the two young men. Both young women embrace them, laughing. Meglann holds Fit tightly to her. Jame smiles as the sparkling brown eyes catch his, then Ahsoka’s. She nods at both of them. 

He thinks of the letters that she had shown him, with the holopic. A memory of her legacy—of two brave, loving warriors, fighting to save a world from starvation and oppression. He remembers Ima-gun Di and others who had died on that day. He remembers the one word on the front of that pic. A word whispered to a young girl by her mother, through the mists of memory.

Hammer.

“Ina,” he whispers. 

Beside him, Ahsoka kisses him on the cheek, then looks at Meglann Florlin, diner owner and accounting student for the last time. At least for a while.

Ensign Meglann Florlin, Alderaan Naval Defense Forces (Reserve) looks back at them and grins.

Ahsoka hears a brief whisper in the strengthening breeze. She realizes that it echoes in her own voice, as well as that of the man lying next to her.

 _I am ready_.


	21. Epilogue: The Admirals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Said Death to Passion  
> 'Give of thine an Acre unto me.'  
> Said Passion, through contracting Breaths  
> 'A Thousand Times Thee Nay.'
> 
> Bore Death from Passion  
> All His East  
> He - sovereign as the Sun  
> Resituated in the West  
> And the Debate was done. 
> 
> Emily Dickinson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Wonderful Cover art for this chapter from SLWalker.** Her tumblr is here:

**The Past: Approximately Four Months before the Resolution of the Naboo Crisis**

Therion Dao slams his hand on the control to Secor’s office door. Through his anger, he can hear the yeoman-droid yelling at him to stop. As he bursts through the door, he stops and stares at Secor, who sits behind his desk looking at him placidly. A raised eyebrow is his only reaction to a subordinate barging into his office without invitation.

“What the hell did you say to her?” Dao blurts, his mid-continent Fondor accent thick with anger.

Secor smiles slightly. “Whatever do you mean, Therion?” he asks mildly. 

“She has resigned. She’s left the base,” Dao spits out.

Secor nods. “Yes. I know. That is unfortunate. She had a great deal of promise.”

“You bastard,” Dao sneers. “You threatened her, didn’t you?”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Jano says, his eyes flashing with anger. “I merely asked her to reconsider her decision not to accept a position on my new command.”

“What did you offer her?” Dao asks. 

“I told her that I would withdraw my negative fitness report on you, as well as the transfer for cause.” He smiles. “Since she has resigned, there need not be a board of inquiry into your fraternization—against my standing orders.”

Dao takes a step towards him. Only a decade and a half of discipline causes him to stop.

Secor smiles, an expression that has suddenly developed a great deal of menace rather than blandness. “That’s it, Therion. You are getting smart. We might be getting close to war over Naboo. I could have you shot for threatening your superior officer with attack.” He stands up. “As it is, it is all a moot point. The CAG and the Admiral declined my request for a transfer of you. They refused to validate my negative FITREP of you, as well. Your promotion to Commander has gone through.

Dao’s eyes narrow. “So where does this leave us?”

Secor moves to the window, watching a pair of fighters take off. “It means that in spite of my best efforts, you will be the ranking officer of the 95th. I’m being promoted to line Captain, but I will not receive a ship.”

_Thank the Hells_ , Dao thinks, using an expression from his mother’s world.

“Instead,” Secor continues. I am going to be chief of staff for the Director-General of the Judicials. It is only a matter of time before I am back on the line.”

Without a word, Dao turns and walks out. He wanders without direction for several moments. He realizes that he has naturally moved to the tarmac. He stops and pulls out the crumpled piece of paper. He touches the neat handwriting in blue ink. 

_My dearest,_

_I know you have questions. I don’t have answers. I only hope you won’t think of me as a coward. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t let you get hurt, merely because we had the temerity to fall in love. I thought that this might be the solution. I have spoken to someone I know in Headquarters. You will be fine, especially with your record._

_Please do not try to find me. It is better if we tear the bandage off. I will be fine._

_I shouldn’t have fallen for you. I was going to ask for a transfer back to the bombers so that we could at least be in the same group, without being under his control. But I had heard they were going to make him CAG. It would never work, with him being around—especially with his ‘connections’ that he was always going on about._

Dao’s tears dot the flimsi, splotching among the neat letters. He reads the last line.

_Always, my Hammer._

_E_

**Ten years later: The First Year of the Clone War**

Admiral Therion Dao stares at the holotank; at the ever increasing numbers of Separatist ships jumping into the Ryloth system. A brilliant flash plays over his features as another of his destroyers explodes, shattering yet another link in the line of battle. The umbrella over Ima-Gun Di’s dwindling forces on the planet. 

He glances over at his left. The eyes of the Executive Officer lock with his. In spite of their situation, she smiles at him, her eyes still sparkling, but tinged with only a hint of worry for their situation. 

His heart clinches as he looks at her. His mind flows back to the night before. As their breathing settled, the sweat evaporating from their bodies, Elann had looked up at him from where she rested in his arms against him. She had kissed him, her lips lingering on his.

The skin between her delicate brows had furrowed at his expression. Her hand had moved to his cheek. “What is it, Hammer?” she asked. 

He had closed his eyes, moving his forehead to hers. “I am no better than him,” he had said in his accent—an accent that became thicker with stress.

“How so, my Admiral?” 

“We should not be doing this. I know you’re not in my direct command, but—,” he starts.

She places her lips over his, allowing her tongue to explore. “You’re nothing like Secor. He didn’t want me, except as a possession. A brood mare for his legacy.” She shifts her hips, causing a noise like a growl. “He never won. You hold my heart. You always did, even after I left the Judicials.”

“You shouldn’t have had to leave,” he said.

Her smile grows as she starts to move rhythmically on him. “Maybe. But if I hadn’t, we might not have our shared heart.”

He looked over at the nightstand, at the holo of the miniature version of the woman in his arms. As always, he tries to see something of himself in the young girl. _Maybe the thunderous, stubborn expression on her face; a tiny bit of her jaw set as she stands with her arms across her chest._

He had heard Elann’s laughter. “I do have a better holo of her. She has a lot of laughter in her. Just that stubborn one is what I grabbed as I was packing,” she said.

“Glad she looks much more like you,” he replied just as he bit her shoulder.

A brief struggle and she straddled him, stroking her hand along his strong jaw, running her hands over his cheeks. “You are beautiful. You were my salvation,” she says. 

“I don’t think even my mother has ever called me beautiful,” he laughed. He realized that his accent—his legacy from his birthworld had eased.

He saw her grow serious. “I know this is against regs,” she said. “But we are in the fight of our lives. Captain Tolson probably knows. He is about as old Navy as there is. He knows what we do for each other.”

There were no more words as the light expanded.

He starts again at his title, coming back to the present. He shake his head slightly, dispelling the thoughts of last night. “What?” he asks of the navigator.

The clone officer points. “Captain Tolson just collapsed. He’s being taken below.”

Dao tracks the officer’s finger. The elderly Captain is slumped, his head lolling as he is carried to the turbolift by two troopers.

“Admiral,” says another officer, “It’s General Yoda.”

He turns his attention to the comm officer. As he does, he touches the holo against his chest. He thinks of a letter that he had sent to an address on Alderaan.

He nods at the small green being.

+=+=+=+=+=

Commander Elann Florlin looks over at the holotank. Her heart clinches as she sees the engineering officer move over to Therion. Her eyes stare at the consoles starting to flicker.

She moves towards him as she hears the officer report the loss of the main reactor. Elann closes the distance. She sees him look over to his left, directly into her eyes. She manages to grab his hand with hers. As their eyes lock, she knows that both of them see a young girl in their vision. Their legacy. A legacy of love, not of possession.

There is a flash of light at the edge of her vision. They tighten their grips on each other’s hands. 

Their legacy locks in their vision as the flash expands.

**A half-century later: Approximately one week before the Hosnian Conflagration -**

J’ohana Shaizan listens intently as the older woman finishes her story. Never has her cousin looked as old as she does now. J’oh, named for two strong women from the past, shakes her head as she looks at the Elector. _No. She doesn’t look old. Merely tired._

Neither woman speaks as the sounds of an ancient clock ticking provides the only noise in the room. Jo takes this moment to look around at the room. Her eyes light on a cylindrical object resting on a stand near the fireplace. 

She had heard other stories of the recovery of that particular item from the forests of Kashyyyk. Of a Wookiee named Chewbacca, the partner of another famous Corellian, returning it to its owner, who had lost it during the final days of the old Republic and the original Jedi order. He had lost it on a mission trying to reveal the depths of the darkness that was fast overtaking the galaxy.

A day after his supposed death. 

J’oh stands and walks over to the item. She runs her hands over the alternating gold and purple insets that make up the handle of the lightsaber. 

_Justice and power_. Two of the three colors that make up a representation of the House of Blackthorn. She knows that the third color is represented as well. It only takes the touch of the small jeweled button at the top of the cylinder to unsheathe the emerald blade.

The color of faith.

She drops her hand from the lightsaber. She hears Jamelyn walk up next to her. The Elector places her arms around J’oh’s middle. J’oh feels the breathing against her own spine 

“Lot of faith needed these days, love,” she says, unconsciously echoing the new Covenant’s thoughts. 

“I know, Your Grace. I know what’s expected of me.”

“Do you, girl?” This comes from a new voice, near the door. A voice that sounds as if its owner has seen and heard it all. A voice that is strong and unwavering. She feels a broad smile flow to the face against her back.

Both women turn. J’oh brings her hand to her brow in salute, as her eyes fall on the rank plaque on the oversized Corellian-style leather flight jacket worn by the woman standing framed in the door. A woman in her sixties, but still standing straight.

“Admiral....,” she starts. 

The unfamiliar officer says nothing, but returns her salute. J’oh takes this moment to get a better look at the woman. She realizes that a wooden cane now against the hip opposite from the hand that had returned the salute.

J’oh’s gaze moves to the woman’s face. Pure white ringlets, tied back into a messy ponytail frame a face that is lined with age; with a few scars from long ago mishaps in the woman’s chosen occupation. A slight smile quirks one side of her lips up. It is the eyes that capture J’oh’s attention.

Eyes filled with experience, but still filled with a decades-old sparkle. As if the world was new and she had no worries.

J’oh’s eyes track down her jacket. Her eyes tear as she sees the left arm hanging useless, its hand twisted into a claw. The tears fade as she sees a tiny object looped through the zipper-pull. She looks closer. The object is a tiny representation of a cooking implement. A frying pan. J’oh grins at the whimsy. 

She starts as she notices that the old woman is gazing at her steadily, appraising her. J’oh looks down. Without a word, Meglann Florlin manages to lift her left arm and place the fingers of her twisted hand under J’oh’s chin, lifting it. J’oh’s eyes track to a nasty scar that disappears into the arm of her jacket and shirt. A scar with faint burning at the edges. 

Both of them look at the lightsaber scar. Meglann shakes her head and smiles ruefully. “That’s a reminder that sometimes somebody does know better than you. Sometimes they don’t. The mark of a good officer and fighter is when to know the difference.”

The Covenant sees the brown eyes tear as they lock on her face. The hand rises to her cheek, the fingers stroking softly over her skin. “I see him in you, J’ohana. A bit of your grandmother, as well.” She grins cheekily. “Fortunately, their genes override whatever material came from that idiot that Queen Sosha married.”

J’ohana feels her face flush at the mention of her father. She feels the hand stop, then drop to her shoulder. “Hush, girl. I am old. I’ve seen a lot. The fortress of age narrows my give-a-shit margin to about the size of a broom closet. I’ve enough to think about without worrying what people think of my opinions of the ability of the Shaizan women to pick the biggest gomers in the universe to actually marry.”

Jo nods after a moment. “I hope that particular ability skips my generation,” she says ruefully.

Meglann and Jamelyn share her brief laugh. Meglann’s eyes soften. “Those damned eyes, though. I have stared in ones like them so many times. Your grandfather. His uncle.” She looks down. “I was there when Fenn died. He’s the reason that I only have this scratch and am not floating as pieces of frozen meat above Scarif, during my second visit.”

She falls silent. Jo can see the memories surge over her face; a smile competing with great sadness. The smile wins.

“Admiral—,” she starts. The old woman places her curled fingers against her lips. “You can call me Meglann, or Hammer, or Ina. I am, after all, family. At least in Zeltron bonding conventions.” 

J’oh watches as Meglann’s right hand moves to her waist. J’oh can see the faint outlines of a chain under the trousers. She looks over at Jamelyn, her eyes wide.

“Don’t look at me. I don’t even try to figure out who’s who in this family, anymore.”

“That didn’t exactly make it into the history books,” Jo says dryly.

She takes a deep breath. “Why did your mother leave the Navy?” she asks. “She could’ve fought any charges Secor brought.”

Meglann closes her eyes. For an instant, J’ohana thinks she has gone too far. That the questions are too painful. 

The eyes snap open. “I don’t know. She knew that she was pregnant when she left. I think that may have had something to do with it. I don’t know. It was her decision. She didn’t ask anyone else; she never told anyone else. My father. My uncle. No one.”

Jo nods. “Why did you choose Corellia? Why not New Alderaan?”

Meglann turns away. Jo places her hands on her shoulders, squeezing tightly. “I was on Alderaan just hours before the Death Star...” She takes a deep ragged breath. “I was on an assignment. I didn’t get a chance to see my uncle.” Meglann turns around. “We figured out that we probably jumped away just as the battle station jumped in.” She grins. “I’m a daughter of Alderaan. I’m a daughter of a Republic Admiral and a naval officer, as well as an accountant and an artist. I’m also a granddaughter of Corellia. My grandmother was the last blood relative I had. She took me in without compunction; just like Bryne and Ahsoka, Dani, Nola, Draq’—even Lassa.” 

“What about Fondor?” Jo asks. 

Meglann laughs. “Didn’t exactly go well when I tried to meet them. That family reunion almost got me, Bryne, and Ahsoka hanged as ship thieves. Nola and Tamsin, as well as a couple of distant relatives managed to get us out of that one. Even though your grandfather and Ahsoka never admitted it.”

She walks over to Jamelyn. The Elector holds out her hands. Meglann leans the cane against her hip as she takes the hands in hers. “Corellia’s my home.” She bows her head. “It’s why I accept your charge, your Grace. I’ll take the carrier task force to support Leia Organa.”

Jo can see the gratitude in her cousin’s gray eyes. Jamelyn pulls Meglann into an embrace.

“Don’t know if we’ll make it there. I think those assholes may make a move towards the Core,” Meglann says. She looks at Jo. “I am assuming that your Eminence will command my fighters?”

Jamelyn nods at Jo. “Yes. She will.” She beckons to Jo, who walks over and is pulled into the embrace. 

After a long moment the three women break apart. Jamelyn slaps Jo on her ass. “Go, General. Get ready.” She picks up the lightsaber. “Take this. Keep it hidden, for now. We may need it.”

Jo fights her own tears. Meglann kisses her on her cheek. 

The Covenant of Corellia turns and exits the room.

+=+=+=+=+=

Meglann looks at Jamelyn. “What about those other abilities that she manifests?”

Jamelyn continues to hold the Admiral. “She’s been working with a training saber. She’s actually using an old holocron of Jame’s and one of Ahsoka’s. She opened them with no problem.”

“Has Leia had any success locating Skywalker?” Meglann continues.

“No. I’m not sure I want her to go to him. Hell, I am not even sure I want her to use those powers. Look at what happened to Luke’s students.” She shakes her head. “I think it might be time. I want you to head to Shili. I don’t know if they will want to do anything. To everybody except a select few, they’ve passed into legend.”

Meglann’s eyes track to where the lightsaber had rested. “They deserve their rest. But I also know they may not sit idly by as the darkness rises again.”

She gives Jamelyn one last kiss and ruffles her hair, as she would have when Jamelyn was a child. As she hobbles out of the room, she thinks about that long ago time, when her family—a family of choice had believed in her; had allowed her to go out and follow her quest. She smiles. 

They had been there at the bottom of the cliff, to lower her to the ground safely.

It may be time for her to do the same for her family. She touches the worn letter in her pocket. A piece of threadbare paper that had been against her heart in every battle she had been in. Along with two holos. One of her parents, with Secor carefully cut out.

The other holo—one of those who had been at that canyon-bottom on Scarif and other worlds for her. Her family of choice.

+=+=+=+=+=

_My dearest Meglann,_

_You don’t know me, but I know you. Two months ago, your mother came on board my ship and back into my life after over a decade. I know that you are smart as a whip—she has told me. I also know her. You’ll be able to figure this out, especially since I am asking that this letter not be given to you until you have decided what your path will be, and are on that path._

_Meglann (I love that name and what it means, by the way—it’s so much your mother), the fact is—I am your father. Believe me, I am as surprised as you are. I know your mother’s reasons for not telling you (if she hasn’t by the time you get this). She left the Judicials because she felt like we would pay for a mistake that really wasn’t a mistake—only something that could be used against us both. The not-a-mistake was the fact that we had fallen in love._

_Another had found out about this fact—one who could make us both pay. Your mother could’ve transferred, but she felt his reach would be too great. She decided to go back home and serve your world; to remove any chance of that person reaching her and solve the problem of reaching me. Judicials had no authority over planetary forces in peacetime back then. It has changed now that we have a Navy and we are at war, but this individual and I are at relatively the same rank. He wouldn’t dare._

_Please don’t be angry at your mother. She is the bravest person I know. She did not run from her problems. She solved them in the best way that she thought that she could. She wanted you to have a life on a world._

_Please don’t think that you were the cause of anything. It is why I want you to read this when you are older, if I can’t tell you. I see your mother light up when she talks about you. You are the most important thing in her life._

_I will tell you this. If I had known what she was going to do, I would’ve resigned before she did. To my ultimate regret, I didn’t when she did, and go find her. I don’t know how good I would’ve been as a father. I was pretty clueless about everything but flying and drinking. I stayed in the Outer Rim for the rest of the time; even now in the Navy._

_I cherish the holo that she gave me of you. If is near my heart when I am awake, and it is on my nightstand when I sleep; it is the first thing I see when I wake and the last thing I see when I sleep._

_I hope to see you when you are an adult. I hope that you feel that I am worthy to be in your life._

_If you are reading this, chances are good that I am dead. That I will never get to look on my daughter or hold her. With your mother asking to be assigned to my ship, the chances are equally horrible that we both will be gone. I spite of my horror at this, I would not give up the last two months for anything._

_I am hoping that we will be relieved over Ryloth, soon. Your mother has assured me that we will be on Alderaan and I will meet you._

_I look forward to this day. The day that I can hold you in my arms, along with your mother._

_Until that day, I am,_

_Your loving father,_

_Therion Dao, known as Hammer._


End file.
